


Misplaced Grace

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Indie Music, M/M, Questioning Sexuality, Rock Stars, basically my excuse to write a big porny summer story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Convinced by Dean to do him a favor, Sam finds himself filling in for his first few days on the job as a new roadie with Misplaced Grace. But by the time Dean shows up to take his place, Sam's smashing straight into a big fat sexuality crisis in the form of the band's lead guitarist, and isn't quite sure he wants to spend the summer knee deep in law books after all. Meanwhile, Dean's determined to have the best summer ever and do a job he's actually good at, with his favorite band. Particularly one favorite bassist. That is, if he can manage deal with the ten year crush he's been toting around with him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The tumblr tag is [Misplaced Grace](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/misplaced-grace).
> 
> This is a music fic - that means' music is pretty damn important to it, so there is a mix, but you might get the most out of it if you shape the band's sound to whatever you'd like it to be.
> 
> Here's the: [ MIX ](http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/misplaced-grace)
> 
> Check out the: [ GRAPHIC ](http://fortinbrasftw.tumblr.com/post/69030836358/misplaced-grace-a-rockband-au-read)
> 
> Lyrics for the first and last songs are by Brown Bird & my lovely majestic unicorn of a beta is [Clara](http://unflinchingclarity.tumblr.com) and my friend Breya did the last three chapters.

This was not how Sam was supposed to spend his summer. He’s supposed to be leaning against some wall outside of one of the top law firms in Berkley, asking the other interns if their associates are as demanding as his, going out for drinks afterwards, coming home exhausted and accomplished to his own neat apartment with papers to read on the coffee table, a nice new bag of arugula in the fridge to wind down the evening.

He _is not_ supposed to be ankle deep in what he can only hope is at least 90% mud, ass sore from twelve hours straight in the car, parched even after chugging the last two inches of tepid Red Bull that had sat, beckoning, in the cup holder - and, above all, lost. Really, very, unquestionably lost.

He’s not sure he could find his way back to his car if he wanted to. The field is packed with cars, trailers, tents, and he could swear he saw an alpaca over by the public showers. There’s music drifting everywhere, laughing, singing, swearing. Some people are selling things out of their cars: t-shirts, immensely questionable burritos, small plastic bags passed casually between unobserved hands.

There are a lot of things Sam doesn’t understand about the world, but why in god’s name people choose to spend days on end living like _this_ is quickly climbing the charts. Who came up with music festivals always? Probably the Romans, or the Celts, or some behavior psychology student with too much free time.

Dean would be in heaven. He’d be grabbing a Pabst from the nearest cooler and making a handful of friendly acquaintances in a few minutes. And it’s not like Sam doesn’t understand _that_. He likes music, really, no matter what Dean says. He just understands the value of a nice bed, peace and quiet, and the comfort of his warm laptop with CNN playing in the background. A row of port-a-potties peeking out of a pile of beer cans just doesn’t have the same appeal.

But Dean asked him to do this. He really wishes that wasn’t a valid reason to disrupt his entire summer. But it is.

He knew how long Dean’d spent getting this together, how many years he’d been listening to these guys religiously (he’d gotten Sam to listen to a song or two, but it’s nothing he can distinctly remember). And when Dean had started emailing the band, and found out they were looking for summer help for their new tour, he'd called Sam first. He hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks, months, and then fate decided to kick them in the shins as usual, which really shouldn’t have left Sam wandering through this maze of pot smell and discarded beer cans.

It wasn’t Sam’s fault that the Impala’s transmission had crapped out the day Dean was supposed to start driving to his new shiny dream job. He really should have just balled up and told him it was what he got for relying on such an old car, but since that would probably result in not speaking to his absurdly and selectively sensitive brother for six months at the very least, he said nothing. Well… not nothing. He said yes.

And now here he is, wandering between the various stages and camping grounds trying to find someone who he can tell: “Hey, I’m Sam, and I know you were expecting my brother, but because of obnoxious masculinity complexes and an inability to let go of sentimental bullshit, I’m here to fill in until he can make it.”

“Just a few days,” he repeats to himself out loud, because he needs support from somewhere right now. Just a few days and then Dean will be here, eager to start his magical summer, and Sam can stop being a temp roadie and get back to intern lectures, air conditioned offices, and that faintly metallic smell of law books.

“Yo!” a voice suddenly calls out.

Sam stops, turning and searching the drifting flocks for the source. There’s a guy about Dean’s age with one of the more powerful mullets Sam’s ever seen and a denim jacket sans-sleeves with nothing underneath, and he's looking his way. He’s wearing something badge like and somewhat official looking around his neck. He waves in Sam’s direction.

“You lost, bro?” Mullet asks, a little smile on his face. Everyone seems to have that little smile around here, like the world makes perfect sense to them, and like the sunlight is made out of pure fucking magic. Sam has a feeling he really shouldn’t find it as obnoxious as he does.

“Yeah,” he admits with a sigh. “Sorry, it’s just sort of crazy here. I don’t know how anyone finds their way around.”

The smile continues. “First fest?”

Sam _really_ shouldn’t be this irritated. “That obvious?”

“Just a bit.” The mullet leans against a stage support. “Want a beer?”

“No,” Sam says firmly, “I want to know where the hell I’m going.”

The smile increases. “Hey, chill, it’s cool.”

It’s not actually all that cool. It’s actually sort of hot as hell.

“I’m Ash,” Mullet says.

Sam swallows his frustration with this day and tries to smile like a normal person. “Yeah, hey - Sam.” He reaches out a hand and the guy takes it with an air of parody.

“Now, where are you headed, Sam?”

Sam sighs, “I’m looking for ‘ _Misplaced Grace_ ’.”

And if that isn’t the lamest band name of all time then he’s Jim Morrison.

“I’m helping out - for a bit, at least. I’m supposed to talk to them.”

“New roadie?” Ash asks, eyebrows raising in amusement, “Seriously?”

“Mostly,” Sam explains quickly. “But more lost now than anything else, so any help—”

“I didn’t know those guys took on roadies,” Ash says, more to himself than anyone else, “They usually just use the on site crews…”

“Well, not this time I guess.”

Ash is looking at him with the distinct air of evaluation now. “Guess not.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to be a dick or anything, but I’ve been wandering around for what feels like an hour and I just want to figure this out.”

“Sure, sure,” Ash says stepping closer, not without eyeing a crop top that floats past them on his way.

He throws and unnecessary arm over Sam’s shoulders, pointing down the corridor of stages around them.

“See down there, behind Stage A?”

“Which one’s ‘Stage A’?”

“The big one.”

“Ah.”

“See that line of tour buses back along those lines?”

Sam tilts a bit to one side. “There?”

“Yup,” Ash says slapping a hand on his shoulder as he pulls back out of Sam’s personal bubble. “It’s the one with the Jesus fish on it.”

Sam turns. “Seriously?”

“Pretty sure satirically. But still, yeah.”

Sam squints at the casual face for a minute before nodding. “Right… well, thanks.”

“Bit of advice,” Ash adds, “Don’t knock too loud. It was a late one last night. First night and all, you know?”

“Right... okay.” Sam says.

“Good luck,” Ash smiles, already wandering back the way he came.

“You too,” Sam says reflexively, only feeling like an idiot a minute later as he’s half way across the muddied ground towards the line of buses.

There’s about six lined up side by side. He sees small signs up on some of them, things that sounds like band names taped up and labeling the windows. He doesn’t see one with “Misplaced Grace” on it… maybe it got lost… gracefully. He smiles for half a second before making himself stop, because no, even he’s not tired enough to find that funny.

No sign, but there is only one bus with a Jesus fish slapped on the back bumper, so he circles around until he finds the door. He pauses for a minute, considering his warning, and then brings his knuckles down in two quick knocks.

Nothing.

Sam shifts his weight back and forth twice and then raises his hand to try again but the door is pulled open before he gets a chance.

The smell hits him first, chock full of whiskey, what he thinks is fireworks, and something like cherry flavoring along for the ride.

“You’re late.” A rough edged but smooth toned voice oozes out of the doorway.

“Am I?” Sam starts. It’s bright outside and dark in the bus and he’s just starting to be able to make out the shape blocking the door.

Whoever it is makes that considerably easier by bracing a hand agains the door frame and leaning out to get a better look at him, sending the sunlight spilling over his face.

“We called for a dancer _last_ night.” The voice drawls.

The guy with smoky breath and dark hanover circles under eyes staring out at him is blonde. He’s tall enough to fill the door but not quite tall enough to look Sam dead in the eyes. He’s got a square sort of face that matches the rest of his physique which Sam realizes suddenly is covered by nothing but pink boxer briefs with tiny skulls on them.

This guy has that omnipresent smile as well, only for some reason Sam’s suddenly feeling he deserves the one he's wearing. The eyes staring back at him are pale blue and lazy, but bright as well with something Sam’s tempted to label furious curiosity lurking under them, and suddenly he’s getting the sensation he’s being watched by a cat waiting to see if he’ll prove interesting enough to swat at. A big cat. In pink underwear.

“I’m not a dancer.” Sam says.

“Really?” The man raises his eyebrows in appraisal, “Pity.”

Sam ignores him.

“I’m Sam, Winchester, I’m here to fill in for my brother for the next day or two until he gets here.”

“And your brother is….?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

A grin slinks across the man’s face.

“Castiel!” He yells back into the bus, “Your employee has arrived.”

Back in the bus there’s a sudden rummaging sound, a few groans and then a sharp yelp followed closely by “sorry, sorry” as the movement continues, apparently heading with some speed towards the door.

A hand grabs at the railing and quick steps hurry down the few between the inside and the outside, and—

“Oh.”

And now Sam’s staring at two pairs of blue eyes, only the new one’s are a good three notches darker, infinitely more trusting, and filled with such powerful disappointment he’s almost struck.

“Um, hi. I’m, Sam.”

The newcomer apparently actually managed to dress himself this afternoon, grey t-shirt and jeans, pretty straightforward actually for a musician. His black hair is about right for the stereotype though, messed and crazy around his face, which has the distinct shadow of stubble along his jaw.

“I think there’s been some mistake.” The disappointed man mutters, and wow, okay, that’s a voice. It sounds like he’s been chewing asphalt and washing it down with scotch since he was in the womb.

“No,” Sam hurries, because this was just what Dean had been terrified of, and if he’s come this far he’s at least going to make it worth it. “Dean just got held up, car trouble, and I’m closer so he asked if I could come here to make sure you knew he was still coming. I can do any work you might need for the next few days at least, he wanted to be sure you didn’t give his spot to someone else or anything.”

“He was concerned, did you hear that Castiel?” Pink underwear drawls, but the shorter man shoulders past him and with surprisingly ease steps outside, knocks underwear back into the bus and shuts the door after him firmly.

“I apologize for Luke,” he explains in the same tired voice, extending a hand, “I’m Castiel.”

“Hey,” Sam says, taking his hand and trying to ignore the laughter coming out of the bus behind them. “Sorry about this, I mean, I told Dean that he should just email you, but—“

“But the internet connection here is less than ideal,” Castiel says. Sam starting to wonder if he’s ever seen anyone looks so thoroughly exhausted. Memories of Bobby last Christmas when Dean got into the stuffing two hours before dinner come to mind.

“Did Dean say when he would arrive?” Castiel asks. Sam notices he gives a strange amount of emphasis to the name, like it’s something particular and unique. Which is a bit stupid really, it’s almost as commonplace as his own name.

“As soon as he can. He said he’d call me when he left, but…”

“The cellular service is also lacking.”

“Yeah…”

Castiel sighs, squinting up at the sun like he hasn’t seen it yet today.

“Well, I guess I’ll show you around?”

“Sure, that would be great.”

Castiel nods solemnly, still wearing that look of violent disappointment as he turns and sets a leisurely pace around the side of the bus. Sam notices that he isn’t wearing shoes and apparently doesn’t care, which is really just unsanitary and ten kinds of stupid, but oh well, maybe that’s just what musicians _do_.

“Are you… familiar with us?” Castiel asks, continuing his walk.

“What? The band? Oh, um, sort of?” Castiel turns enough to raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Well,” Sam rallies, “I’ve heard your stuff.” He thinks.

“That’s a start I suppose.” Castiel says. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I mean sure, well yeah. Yeah.”

This time Castiel raises both eyebrows before turning back to his walk.

“There’s three of us, I mostly play bass but also sometimes cleo and piano. The idiot who greeted you so formally is Luke, he’s vocals, guitar, and fiddle. And then finally there’s Gabriel, who hits things.”

“I hope you mean drum sort of things.”

“Mostly.”

Castiel stops in front of an RV waiting behind the bus. “This is where you can stay. We are all used to intruding on each other’s personal space and the violence that comes along with that, but I figured that introducing a new individual to our usual group did not merit the same level of traumatic exposure.”

Sam’s a little taken aback. “Seriously? You got Dean an RV to stay in?”

He could almost swear he sees Castiel’s cheeks flush pink quickly before he looks away. “It only seemed appropriate.”

“Wow,” Sam says leaning back on his heels slightly, “I guess this is a pretty sweet job after all. You know, he totally would have camped in his car for years if it meant spending the summer with you guys.”

Castiel looks up at him with sudden interest. “Really?”

Sam laughs, “Uh, yeah, you’ve pretty much been his favorite musical obsession since he was eighteen.”

Castiel turns away, shuffling his feet on the grass with a little private smile.

“So,” Sam starts again, “What does this job consist of, really?”

“Can you tune a guitar?” Cas asks.

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

Castiel looks at him for a long moment and finally sighs, “Then carrying. Lots of carrying.”

Sam forces on his best positive attitude. “I can manage that.”

As it turns out he can barely manage it. He never knew that amps packed a freakish amount of mass for something that deals almost primarily with air flow, and that speakers were even worse, not to mention that he has no idea why anyone would need so many instruments for three people. Three people - three instruments. Shouldn’t be it be that simple? But no, there’s at least ten, plenty of which looks almost identical so he has to ask Castiel for some deciphering. He has to hear the explanation between the fiddle and the violin twice before he actual gets it, but Castiel seems to have the patience of a glacier and explains carefully as often as Sam asks. But all the while Sam still has the sneaking sense that he’s almost depressed he’s there at all. But can he blame him? It would be easier to have Dean here, who knows all the instruments and how to tune most of them and doesn’t ask stupid questions.

Sam can carry stuff at least, which seems to be getting the job done. The quiet enjoyment of actually doing something physical sneaks up on him unexpectedly. It’s been years since he’s really _worked_ at something that requires more than mental exercise, and he finds his brain getting to that quiet humming place of peace that it always does when you’re focused solely on the physical chore in front of you.

Castiel tells him how this is only the second day of the festival. They arrived the previous night to set up, but tonight is their first show. They’ll do one more the next night and then move on with the tour. Dean had told him some of those details, but Sam’d only half listened. After all, he hadn’t expected them it to come into such brusque and sudden contact with his own summer plans.

They’re starting out here, apparently, on the west coast with this festival, then they’ll be circling around through Austin, New Orleans, Savannah, and on up to the East coast for another fest in Providence before doing single shows in New York, Boston, and Portland, and finally crossing the border for a big blow out in Montreal.

Castiel had laughed at Sam’s shock after learning that all this was under two months of their schedule, quietly and simply explaining to him that this was summer and they had to make it count before weather and recording requirements shut them in for the later months.

Sam can’t imagine anyone choosing to live so nomadically. He remembers circling the country with their dad when they were little, him and Dean learning to treat the back seat like home as they hopped from motel to motel while John looked for work, found it, lost it, and started the cycle all over again. Sam had hated it. Truly, truly, hated it. The thought that someone, someones, would pick a life entirely without stability is just beyond him. But it’s not his life. It’s not his problem. He’s here for Dean, for a day, maybe two. And he’s going to carry things.

Sam plops down on an amp on what he’s recently learned is “Stage B”. The past five hours have also provided an impromptu lesson in electrical from some stage hands so he can actually manage to set some of this stuff up and test the connections. But there’s local crews to handle most of that. Really, they just want him to drop stuff off and pick more things up.

As soon as it starts to get dark, music edges up from several corners of the field, catching in the air and wafting through the crowds. People drift away from their own corner over to others, taking in the sounds wherever they’re coming from.

Sam takes a moment to straighten up from one speaker and look out over the field.

It’s really a beautiful night. He’s standing in the corridor off stage left, hanging lights up above, cords taped down across the black floor underneath, equipment and instruments scattered around. Despite the clutter, it’s easy enough to see the evening unfolding out in front of the stage.

It’s just past midsummer and the flowers are cresting over the tall grass that rises up outside of the festival grounds. All the grass inside has either been mowed down or trampled flat. He can see the piles of tents spread out beyond the stage area, little hills of bright Gortex in a haphazard pattern. It’s still thick evening, the sun threatening to hit the distant hilltops and slink down below. The light is heavy and golden - very California, Sam thinks to himself with a small scoff.

“Bored already?”

Sam jumps, spinning to see the smug face smiling back at him only about a foot behind his shoulder.

The man’s leaning against one of the stage supports, one foot crossed behind the other. He still has that lazy air to his pale blue eyes, but they’re more alert than they had been gazing out of the doorway earlier in the morning, as if the world is fully entering them now, not just sneaking in at the corners. Or maybe that’s just the small amount of black eyeliner that's been smudged around them.

“I see you found pants?” Sam says.

“Regrettably.” He answers. They’re jeans, well worn and low riding. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt as well, which Sam might argue is a bit small for him.

He’s taking Sam in, that much is obvious, not that he seems to be putting any effort into hiding the fact. Sam's not bothered. He’s used to guys checking him out, girls too for that matter. Nothing exceptional.

“It’s Luke, right?” Sam asks, turning to the amps he’s been lining up in the back so they can move them on stage when the time comes.

“Mmm, and it’s not Dean?”

“It’s Sam.”

“Sam,” Luke says, rolling the name around his tongue slowly.

Sam ignores him.

“And how do you find yourself here, Sam?”

“Castiel told me to move these behind the stage.” Sam answers shortly.

Luke laughs softly behind him as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. The worst part is Sam’s sure he absolutely does.

“Is the actual answer really ominous enough to invoke such distain?”

Sam rolls his eyes without turning around. “Berkeley. I’m from Berkeley.”

“Ah. The mundane and misplaced rigors of academia, then?”

Sam does turn now. “Yes, as a matter of fact, although it seems flippant to blanket something so broad under ‘misplaced’. And I certainly don’t find it mundane.”

He expects him to back off, to shrug and leave for someone more accepting of what Sam is now suspecting is clinical arrogance. But he doesn’t. In fact, now that he’s facing him, Sam can see that his smile’s broken out of a smirk into a full blown grin and his eyes are focused with increased sharpness on Sam’s.

“Let me guess, law student?”

Sam sighs as he nudges one of the amps into place, sweeping his hair out of his face with a flick of his head. “Yeah, actually.”

“And all that erratic morality doesn’t grate against someone as obviously idealistic as yourself?” Luke smiles.

He’s slipped one hand into his jeans’ pocket and is rolling something between two fingers of his other hand as it rests at his side. It might be a guitar pick but Sam’s not totally sure.

“What do you know about it?” Sam finds himself snapping.

“You’re quite defensive of your little academia.” Luke says.

“I appreciate it,” Sam says. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to.”

“Right,” Luke answers, tilting his head, “Even though I’m sure you're riding on a full scholarship - it must have been an emotionally stirring application essay.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You appreciate it. Scholarship students often do.”

“No,” Sam interrupts, “About the essay.”

“Oh,” Luke runs his eyes up him again, landing on his eyes finally with a flash of teeth. “You just strike me as stirring.”

“Is that right? Even with my benign acceptance of such flawed and futile systems?” Sam shoots back sarcastically.

“What is it that makes you define them as less than so?”

Sam’s viciously tempted to turn back to the amps and ignore him altogether. He’s not actually sure how he ended up tumbling into a position of defending the pertinence of the legal system within four minutes of conversation.

He should ignore him. He’s a dick. And if he doesn’t ignore him he’s not going to stop.

“It’s worth it.” Sam says.

“Worth what?” Luke asks. There’s actual curiosity in his gaze, even if it is closer to a cat watching a crippled bird try to fly than anything else.

“All of it.” Sam says defiantly, “Law’s worth it. Because in the end, you get to speak for truth and that’s worth anything. That’s worth everything.”

Sam holds his gaze and waits for the laugher, the snappy reply, the arrogant smile, something. But there’s nothing, nothing but a suddenly spark inside the pale blue eyes.

“That work for you?” Sam asks breaking the silence.

Luke’s gaze doesn’t leave his. “Almost.” He shrugs, “ Although, unfortunately truth is not a universally tangible concept.”

Sam snorts and turns back to the amps, “Is that right?”

“Mmm,” Luke says, “I strive for truth myself, I simply acknowledge my perception is not universal.”

“Oh yeah? Is that the artist’s statement? ‘I strive for truth’?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Luke says with the same amused quiet tone.

Sam laughs, “Right, and what I do is ‘intangible’.”

“Excuse me?”

Sam turns raising his eyebrows, “You’re seriously implying that art has greater significance with regards to truth than law?”

Luke’s grinning again, “And what would you say if I was?”

“I’d say art is impressions and law is concrete.”

“And I’d say that you cannot prove anything to be more than impressions.”

“That may be so, but playing the 'uncertain nature of reality' card has one fatal flaw.”

“What’s that?”

“If reality is no more than perception then it is unique and individual, and whatever I find true is truth, and unfortunately you don’t get to dictate the terms of my reality. But I hope you’re enjoying yours.”

Luke eyes are blazing. “Currently I am. Quite a bit in fact. What about you, Sam?”

“Not so much actually. I get enough of arrogant douches who think they know the universal meaning at school, thanks.” Sam lies. He actually can’t remember the last time he argued like that with anyone. Even in school, there’s usually a point when whomever he’s debating runs out of text book quotes to sling at him. And he’s decidedly lame for thinking his pulse is up after it. It’s the amps. They’re heavy. It’s exercise. Exercise is invigorating. And douchebags are aggravating.

Behind him he hears Luke laugh and lift himself off the wall, stepping towards Sam’s back easily.

“Anyways,” Sam shoots, “Shouldn’t you be ‘loosening up’ or whatever the hell musicians do?”

“I certainly should be.” Luke says. His voice is a good deal closer. “Would you like to help?”

Sam turns. He’s standing directly in front of him. Directly in front of him.

There’s probably less than half a foot between them altogether and those pale blue eyes, just a few inches below his, lazy and sharp all at once, flit slowly from his lips to his eyes and a slow hungry smile drags over his cheeks.

But Sam’s more than ready. He’s been waiting for this since the guy started staring at his ass when he turned to pick up the first amp.

“I’m straight,” he says simply.

“Good for you.” Luke smiles.

“And even if I wasn’t,” Sam continues, not stepping back, “I’ve had enough pompous professors who think they’re intellectual deities crashing into my personal space to lose my taste for it.”

Luke’s smile doesn’t flinch. The curious hunger still blazes behind his stare.

“So, thanks,” Sam says, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him gently back a foot or so, “But no thanks.”

Someone starts clapping.

Sam snaps his eyes away from the blue ones, looking for the source of the sound.

The someone is sitting on one of the bigger speakers, legs draped over the front haphazardly. His medium length brown hair is pushed back from his face - not without a small amount of gel - and he’s wearing a hot pink t-shirt that has “Booty Patrol” written across it in giant sparkly letters. Sam thinks the last time he saw jean shorts that high was when Dean made him marathon Dukes of Hazard after he broke his ankle. His high-top sneakers are almost as bright as the letters of his shirt only they’re gold instead of silver, which actually picks up sharply in his eyes.

“And the judge from Berkley is unimpressed, giving a shocking 1.5 to an admirable showing from the contestant - throwing penalties for sexual orientation and indisputable douchy-ness.” The newcomer shakes his head.

“Can you blame me for trying?” Luke asks, apparently entirely unfazed by Sam’s rejection.

“No, I certainly can not,” he answers, running his eyes down Sam in an equally violating way and waggling his eyebrows when he finally gets back to his face. “What do you think, Stretch? Up for another score card? I bet I can at least break 4.5.”

“Twenty says you don’t hit 1.” Luke says smoothly.

“Deal.”

“Who the hell are you?” Sam breaks in.

“For such a sharp thing you’re not so good at the arithmetic, huh kiddo?”

“Mmm, I think he has more redeeming qualities.” Luke smiles, eyeing Sam again.

Sam sighs, “I don’t actually remember your name, sorry.”

“Seriously?” Booty Patrol stares, “Did you just wander in from desert isolation, orrr—?”

“Look,” Sam sighs, already well past hitting his maximum arrogance exposure limits for the day, “Dean’s the fan, not me. Sorry, I’m just helping him out here.”

“Ahhh, that’s right. It’s not Dean, just the cheek-boney face of Castiel’s most recent exercise in self deprecating disappointment.”

“What?”

“Gabriel.” He smiles.

Sam stares.

“The name you should know,” he continues helpfully. “It’s Gabriel.”

“Drummer?”

“ _The_ drummer. Yes. Not to mention an ample 90% of the sex appeal and at least 45% of the magnetism.”

“So, I guess the whole full-of-it thing is sort of a musicians prerequisite, huh?” Sam says before he can stop himself.

Gabriel stares at him for a long moment and then rolls his head to the side to smile at Nick.

“He’s sassy. Can we keep him?”

Luke grins. “I certainly hope so.”

Gabriel turns back to Sam, “I’m telling Cassy you called him full of it. It’s your fault if he cries. And I’m warning you, if he does it’s gonna be both sad and weirdly fascinating, like a box of three legged puppies.”

Sam can’t help laughing. “Alright, maybe he’s an exception.”

“So, Winchester-the-younger, where’s your brother?” Gabriel presses.

“Probably half way inside his transmission praying to whoever will listen that you don’t leave without him.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Gabriel assures.

“No,” Luke agrees, “Castiel is sullen enough as it is. And the last thing we want is him finding his way into the tequila again.”

“Was he looking forward to Dean working with you guys this summer?” Sam asks, wrinkling his brow.

“Do mattresses retain the smell of Jello?”

Sam stares, “I really don’t know how to answer that.”

“Stick around.” Gabriel winks, “We offer vast knowledge.”

Sam smiles, “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

“Are you watching the show?” Luke breaks in suddenly.

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess so.” Sam answers.

“You better,” Gabriel says. “It’s embarrassing to have a roadie who doesn’t even know what the band sounds like.”

“I’m not really a roadie.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Gabriel says, with an officially creepy look.

“Stop harassing our employee,” A gravelly voice cuts in as Castiel steps out around the corner.

Castiel’s the most unchanged from earlier that day. His hair is pushed out of his face but it’s still a mess. He’s wearing a white button up shirt and a plain black tie that Sam thinks might be backwards.

He has a black electric bass in one hand.

“Harassment is a relative term,” Gabriel insists.

“I don’t think the tech from Seattle would agree with you, Gabriel,” Castile chides, stepping closer to Sam, “I apologize if they’ve been bothering you. They require a frankly obscene amount of attention.”

Sam smiles, eyeing them. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“They get particularly demanding before shows. I should really lock them in the trailer for everyone’s safety.”

“Not if you value the sanctity of your shampoo.” Gabriel threatens, jumping down from the speaker finally and cracking his knuckles.

“We need to warm up,” Castiel says. “Review the set.”

Gabriel groans, “Everyone knows the set.”

“Don’t whine.” Luke says, stepping past Sam towards the others, “We’ll review.”

Castiel gives Sam one last nod and shoves Gabriel by his lower back towards the inner depths of backstage.

Luke stops before following them, turning back in Sam’s direction.

“I’d get a good seat now if I were you. You wouldn’t want to miss any intangible truths.”

He gives Sam one slow wink and a grin to go with it before turning to saunter after his brothers.

 

It turns out he was right. Apparently _Misplaced Grace's_ music makes up for their shitty name because the space in front of the stage is jam packed.

And as far as crowds go, it’s a pretty active one. One girl is already getting tossed around on top of it. Wisps of chants pick up and fall off again. Whoops and shouts shatter through the dull roar as the tension grows higher and the time gets later.

Sam’s actually managed to use his shiny “CREW” badge to find himself a decent spot. There’s some space under the lighting console but above the main throng of the crowd where a few other techs and roadies are milling about, drinking beers, complaining about their groups and fawning over the music in equal measure.

Sam finds a good place aside from most of them to lean back and get comfortable. He’s close enough to the stage to see everything great. The instruments are waiting there, silhouetted against the darkness of the stage. He almost allows himself feel a sense of pride for the setup before he realizes how stupid that is. After all, Castiel tuned pretty much everything for him and he really only picked things up and put them back down. Still, screw it, maybe he is a bit proud.

“Hey, newbie!”

Sam turns. The mullet is approaching, complete with stoner smile and raised PBR.

“How’s the job?” Ash asks, squeezing in next to Sam and pushing a cold beer into his hand without asking if he wants it.

“Pretty straight forward. Lift the things. Deal with the douche bags.” Sam says. He looks down at the can for a moment before finally cracking it open and taking a deep gulp. It’s cold and cheap and exactly right.

Ash grins back at him. “There, see, you’re a pro already.”

“That’s all there is to it, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Ash says, stretching out his arms over the railing behind them and collapsing into the posture. “That and don’t drop the guitars. Or cellos. Or whatever. Oh, and if you hear what sounds like a strangled giraffe coming out of a tour bus, ignore it and walk quickly in the opposite direction.”

Sam laughs and takes another deep drink. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You don’t want to learn that lesson the hard way. Trust me on that.”

The lights suddenly shift on the stage, lifting up and then down again, cascading the stage into red. The crowd takes the noise level up to 11, cheering, and chanting, something…

“ _Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer!_ ”

Sam snorts, “Are they expecting someone?”

“That’s what they call him.” Ash says, sipping his own PBR.

“Who?” Sam asks.

“Luke,” Ash answers.

Sam stares, “Seriously?”

Ash shrugs.

“Jesus,” Sam laughs, “And I didn’t think he could get any more pretentious.”

“It’s not as bad as when Gabriel tried to get them to call him ‘Lord of Mischief’.”

“No, I think it’s just as bad.”

“Fair enough.”

“Does Castiel get any clever nicknames, he doesn’t really seem like the type.”

“No, but some of his more intimidating fans did call themselves 'Followers of The Lord'. ”

The dark silhouettes of figures cross the stage and the chanting takes it up a notch as the lights lift, revealing the band as they ease into their instruments.

Castiel is actually behind a massive standing bass and Gabriel is adjusting a few strange things behind the drum kit.

Luke is looking down, fixing the strap on his acoustic a bit, apparently deaf to the crowd screaming out their names.

A little thrill starts to build in Sam’s chest. He can’t help it. The energy surrounding them is electric, bloated with anticipation and awareness, all attention riveted on these three figures in front of the crowd. He’s never really _gotten_ music, but, well, there’s no denying that there’s something to the excitement filling up the space around them.

Castiel seems to get himself sorted and turns his eyes towards Luke, waiting for him to start. Sam glances behind them to see that Gabriel’s doing the same.

Luke takes a few steps closer to the microphone against the din of the crowd and then suddenly raises his hand.

Silence falls instantly.

Sam feels a small shiver snake up his spine but shrugs it off, taking a sip of beer and insisting to himself that he’s not impressed. Even if that was sort of awesome.

The silence holds, Castiel, Gabriel, the crowd, even Sam, all staring directly at Luke, and for an instant it’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.

And then he starts to play.

The first cord hits and instantly Gabriel picks it up, echoing out the driving simple rhythm as Cas backs it up, ramping up the intro and following the pace the guitar sets. .

The first few whoops sound from the crowd and then Luke’s stepping up to the microphone. He shuts his eyes, and starts to sing.

_“I can’t make my mood match the weather_  
 _I can’t make the weather do what I want_  
 _so I’ve resigned myself to pry that big old sun out of the sky_  
 _and I will live my days in darkness til I die--_

_I tried to be good I was a failure_  
 _so I took to taking all the good men down_  
 _it wasn’t hard to do  I just huffed and puffed and blew_  
 _until all the two-shoes scattered underground,”_

Castiel and Gabriel take the end of the verse and run with it, driving the intro up into the full body of the song.

In some distant part of his mind Sam’s sure that Cas’s fingers must be dancing over the strings with freakish speed and Gabriel’s stupid shirt is picking up brightness of the lights and sending sparkles all across the drums to the delight of their audience. He’s sure the crowd is shouting, cheering, throwing their hands in the air and urging them on.

But he doesn’t see any of that. He doesn’t hear any of that. Because the man on the stage is singing. And Sam doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but it’s impossible to look away.

He can’t blink. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing or not. He can’t really remember if breathing is somehow important to existence right now.

There’s nothing. Nothing but the sound of his voice.

He’s never heard anything like it. There isn’t anything like it. There can’t be.

_“You could be right_  
 _they might come for me at night_  
 _in angry mobs with torches bright outside my door_  
 _for all my spite I might never win the fight_  
 _but I will rage against the light forever more,”_

“Oh my god.” He feels himself mutter.

Ash glances over in his direction with another sip of his beer, “I know, right. They’re not half bad.”

But he doesn’t know. He has no fucking idea.

They way he sings, it’s _real_. It’s more real than anything Sam has ever heard before.

Maybe there’s something in his drink. Maybe he went too long without water today. Maybe he sprained his brain lifting an amp too quickly. Something. He must have done something, because the sound of that voice is echoing against him, _through_ him, and it’s so fucking beautiful and so fucking perfect that he’s having a hard time swallowing.

It’s just so _full_. Full of everything. It’s not just his voice. It’s him. All of him. He’s singing with his entire body, his entire soul. And it just feels so _free_. This asshole with ten varieties of superiority complex has completely and utterly given himself over to it, and it’s suddenly something completely different, something beyond, something _ethereal_.

And they’re just cheering, just clapping, like it’s just that fucking simple. And it’s not, it’s so much more than that.

It’s a soul. A single brilliant, blazing human soul, full of fury and glory and truth shoving itself out into the light with no shame, no restraint, and so much courage it burns.

Sam can’t look away, and the music swells.

_“I drank the blood of angels from a bottle_  
 _just to see if I could call the lightning down_  
 _it hasn’t struck me yet  and I would wage my soul to bet_  
 _that there ain’t no one throwing lightning anyhow,_

_Too many tries at tempting fate to call it over_  
 _and you get to thinking fate’s got different plans_  
 _like maybe i’m not born to die  but to bring darkness to the sky_  
 _and pull that goddamn sun down anyway I can,”_

  
His whole body is caught up in the sound, urging itself against the guitar, pressing tight and furious against the microphone. Every inch of him is straining against the pressure of this sincerity and reveling in the pure freedom of it.

It’s as if the music drapes itself around the singing form, slips and slinks into his skin, running down his limbs as he moves against it, rolling his hips, dropping his head, slamming shut his eyes to shove out even more.

The red of the stage lights suddenly brighten into white. The blue of his eyes snap directly onto Sam’s and it knocks the air out of him like punch.

_“And oh the hopelessly tender hearted_  
 _tend to sing the loudest of love_  
 _but my sweet temptations turn their songs into a lie_  
 _I fold the grass over all they’ve started_  
 _to never see the light of the sun_  
 _as they dwell in darkness so shall I,”_

He lets the guitar hang at his side, Castiel and Gabriel falling away with one final blow to leave nothing but his voice and the silence of the rapt crowd. Luke eases the speed of the song, letting the last chorus drag out of him slow and heavy.

_“You could be right_  
 _they might come for me at night_  
 _in angry mobs with torches bright outside my door_  
 _for all my spite_  
 _I might never win the fight_  
 _but I will rage against the light forever more”_

The crowd explodes into sound and suddenly Sam can think again. Up on stage Luke grins at the applause, nodding back to Castiel to shout a few quick notes and change his guitar as Gabriel knocks some new things into place.

Sam’s throat is dry and he can’t even start to sort out what the fuck is wrong with him. He brings the beer in his fist up to his lips and drains it in one long thick swallow.

When he lowers he can feel Ash staring at him.

“Another?”

“Yeah.” Sam says hoarsely. “Please.”

 _It’s just live music_ , he insists to himself, very decidedly not looking at the stage as the first few notes start for the next song.

He’s never even really been to a live show before. He didn’t know what to expect. It’s the energy of the crowd. The performance. Performance is a powerful ancient thing, there’s nothing weird about that. He’ll get used to it. He’ll calm down. The next song will be better.

The next song isn’t better.

Neither is the next one.

Or the next one. And another beer doesn’t help the situation much either.

Soon enough he’s leaning hard against the railing, hands gripping tight to the metal, stare unflinching on the stage, on the body pushing this sound, this feeling, out into the world. He knows his foot is tapping, matching the beat set by the one on the stage in front of him, but he stopped being totally aware of his body a while ago.

The music wraps around him, the sound of that voice humming through his body, setting him alight in a way he’s never felt before. He knows he should try to stop, insist to himself that it’s stupid and weird, but two beers later he isn’t even trying.

Sam soaks it in and it crashes into him again, each song a new impossible wave that he doesn’t understand and finds, in his drunken state, that he doesn’t want to try to.

After ten more songs it takes him a few minutes to realize that they’re leaving the stage, and then he screams till he’s hoarse with the rest of the crowd until they come back on.

There’s two more, and then, it’s over, and he’s not quite shameless enough to yell for more if no one else is. The crowd mills around just below him, trying to work its way to the next show. Sam stays where he’s left, leaning against the railing, wondering if he ever really heard silence with such clarity before.

“Good show, huh?”

Sam shakes himself, turning to face the grinning mullet behind him.

“Yeah.” Sam smiles weakly, “Good show.”

He stands up properly, knees aching for the first time, or maybe he’s just noticing it now. His head seems to be remembering how to work properly again, the world filling in all the empty spaces the sound of the music left behind.

Ash gives his shoulder a squeeze, “See you at tomorrow’s show?”

Sam grins, eyes suddenly heavy under the booze and exhaustion, “Yeah, absolutely. Definitely.”

“Good. Beer’s on you next time.”

“Deal.”

 

It turns out, breaking down the stage is a bit more demanding than setting it up, and four beers don’t exactly help the situation. At least he manages not to drop anything too heavy. Castiel pops back hardly ten minutes after they get started with the tear down and stays long to make sure Sam actually knows what he’s doing.

Sam hardly manages a “good show” (because isn’t that what you’re supposed to say) before Castiel vanishes to presumably wherever the rest of the band is getting drunk enough to sleep in as late as they apparently did that morning.

It’s almost 2AM by the time all’s said and done, and yeah, it probably would have been significantly earlier if Sam’d remembered where their equipment trailer was and hadn’t been forced to go around trying the key Cas gave him on twenty different ones before finally finding it. And it didn’t help that RV doors, as it turns out, can be absurdly hard to open when half unconscious and still bordering on tipsy. But he gets there, eventually.

The RV’s actually a bit smaller than he’d first thought, not that he can tell much in the dark, but he’s too exhausted to find a light switch and settles for stubbing his toe twice and banging his knee on the edge of the kitchenette before finally collapsing into the bed in the back, which is thankfully already made.

Sam kicks his boots off unceremoniously and has just enough energy to strip off his shirt and wiggle out of his jeans before crawling under the blankets and collapsing with a sigh.

He’s sore, truly sore, for the first time in a long time, and he has a feeling tomorrow is only going to be worse. It’s not that he’s not in shape. He is. Definably so. But, well, maybe there’s no real substitute for actual physical labor. That doesn’t matter right now, not when he has a solid day of work and four beers pushing his body deep into the uneven squish of the mattress.

Sam lets out one thick sigh and shuts his eyes, ready for sleep to crash into him.

But it doesn’t.

He tries rolling over once, twice. He tries sticking one foot out of the blankets and then tugging it back in. He shoves at the pillow until it’s an entirely different shape. He lies perfectly still and waits. But there’s nothing.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

It’s almost three in the damn morning and he’s exhausted and he can finally sleep and the fact that he can’t get the sound of that voice out of his head really, _really_ , shouldn’t have anything to do with that.

He’s not thinking about that. Definitely not.

But why not?

Sam rolls over onto his back with a sigh. If it’s stuck in his head he might as well focus on it, right? Maybe if he pays attention it will stop crawling around in his skull and he can sort it out and _go the fuck to sleep_ already. Just for a bit. Just to unstick it. It’s like having a song stuck in your head, right? You just have to hold one note and then it will fade away? That’s easy enough...

It’s all still so clear, like hitting play and the images and sounds snap to life under his shut eyes. The voice floods in all around him, the truth of it, the clarity, the utter commitment. It seems almost impossible that the guy hitting on him backstage with that pretentious presupposing smirk was the same person standing on that stage, the light flooded around him echoing that _sound_.

But it wasn’t just the sound. It was everything.

Sam lets all of it pour in. He can see him up there, one hand sliding down the neck of the guitar, eyes fallen shut with just a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The blonde hair is pushed back from his face, messy and wild and totally undesigned. He can see a booted foot driving down on one note as his head slings back, fingers strumming down over the strings with quick fury. The beat slinks up but then the voice slows, eyes opening, blue catching so sharp in the stage lights, and those hips _roll_ against the sound, belt just short of actually _grinding_ into the back of the guitar—

_Oh._

Sam’s eyes shoot open.

_Fuck._

He keeps them locked very firmly on the dully lit white plastic ceiling above him.

If he doesn’t think about it it will go away, but even that stupid thought has his cock giving an interested twitch under the cheap blankets.

He shuts his eyes tighter.

_Fuck. Fuck._

He does not have an erection. He can’t have an erection. He’s straight. Straight guys don’t get erections over dudes singing in tight t-shirts and rolling their hips against guitars. And _fuck_ he really needs to stop thinking about that.

That’s it. That’s all. He’s going to stop thinking about it. And then he’s going to go to sleep.

Unless... this is the reason he can’t go to sleep.

No, that’s not it. Because he’s not gay, and it’s that simple.

But that’s kind of a stupid thing to think… isn’t it?

Is it really that weird? Is he actually “that guy”, the one who clings to some label like it’s something to hide behind? Sure, it’s never happened before. Well, not _really_. Some guys are attractive, that’s just nature, but not _sexually_ attractive... not in a way that has him tight fisted on his back trying to bludgeon his brain into sleep.

Why should this guy be any different? Just hours ago Sam was staring down at him telling him to go fuck himself, and actually meaning it. Really, viciously meaning it. He wasn’t attracted to him then. Of course he wasn’t. Why would he be? Why would things be different now? Because he sang a few songs?

But it wasn’t just singing a few songs, was it…

There was something there. Something real and new - and undeniably, unavoidably _hot_.

There’s no point in denying that. It was hot. It was sexual in a strange and exhilarating way. And so what?

So he got turned on, who cares? Why should he care? There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s told Dean that more than enough times, scolded him for chucking gay insults around like they’re anything else (which is ironic given the fact that Dean’s the one who’s actually done stuff with dudes).

Sam doesn’t give a shit about other people’s sexuality. He never has. He’s just never…

Half curious to see if he’s actually going to stop himself, Sam lets one hand drift down his stomach. His eyes slip shut, replacing the dull ceiling with quiet darkness.

Huh.

Apparently he isn’t stopping himself.

At least not yet.

One finger eases under the waist band of his boxers. Then another. A song is slipping through his mind, that voice pressing into every opening.

Sam swallows once and steadily wraps his hand around his now undeniable erection. The relief of it sweeps across him almost as sharp as the fresh need it spurs. Short blond hair and hips under low slung jeans flash across his mind, and he brings his fist down once.

The gasp that pulls from his chest shocks his eyes open for an instant before the images press tight again and he shuts them firmly, dragging his hand up and down once more. And _shit_ it feels good. It feels really, _really_ good.

He hears that voice, _his_ voice, singing out so strong and fearless, and then it’s closer, pressed tight and low against Sam’s ear and he can imagine his own hands snatching at those hips and bringing their rhythm tight agains his own.

“Fuck-“

Sam grits his teeth and flips over, supporting his weight on one elbow and setting a steady pace.

He can see a square jaw dropping limply open on the edges of notes, a tongue darting lazily out to wet lips before opening them again for more. He sees his own hands suddenly taking hold of the shoulders under that stupid shirt, gripping tight and shoving them down and eyes that just flash curious and hungry, daring, dauntless.

Sam drives his hips forward with sudden fury, gasping as his forehead rests heavy on his forearm, sticky and hot. He grunts shortly, tightening his fist around himself and fucking deep and hard into it, the slip of pre-come already more than telling of just how far gone he was with this before he even started.

He can feel the thin blankets slipping against his back and he grits his teeth. The voice is purring against him, saying so many things, things he can’t even believe are flying into his mind, and then Sam’s tightening his fingers in that blond hair and pressing his cock against those lips, feeling the hum of that voice around him as that mouth just takes it and takes it--

Sam gasps, eyes snapping open as his hips stutter forward and his orgasm staggers into him with a few quick blows. He lets his jaw fall open and eyes slip shut as he eases his hand back, the last images dragging the final pulses of pleasure down his whole body. His muscles hold tight and shaky for another moment as the sticky heat registers against his fist, and then he lets it go.

Sam rolls, flopping over to one side.

His eyes focus numbly back up at the ceiling, dull light playing against the white plastic, heavy breaths slowly steadying in his chest. Outside, he can still hear the hum of music lingering with the murmur of excited distant voices.

Well… maybe this summer would turn out interesting after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not nervous. He’s got no reason to be nervous. It’s a job. That’s all. He’s here to do a job, a great job. You’re supposed to be excited for shit like that, aren’t you? Not that he would know… he’s never really had a new job before.
> 
> Dean’s just excited, excited and too hyped up after drinking six cups of coffee in the past three hours and driving all night. That sort of behavior would make anyone edgy, not just a guy who’s about to meet the dude who sort of accidentally saved his life.
> 
> And shit. Thinking about that really isn’t helping.

It’s noon. He’s really having a hard time remembering the last time he slept till noon. He’s having an even harder time focusing on the time displayed on his phone through the haze of sleep still weighing him down into the blankets and the mattress and the warm and why the hell is he awake anyways?

Something bangs against the metal of the RV door.

Oh… right. That’s why.

Sam groans and rolls over properly, trying to get his hair out of his face enough to scowl in the direction of the banging.

“SAMMY! OPEN UP!” 

Okay, now he’s awake because there’s really no way that could be anyone else.

“HOLD ON!” He yells.

Sam scrambles over to the other side of the bed, goes to stand, and fuck, his foot is tangled, and _fuck_ now he’s falling-- 

Perfect.

He ends up sideways on the ground with a groan, but he gets back to his feet easily enough, and — _shit_ , since when is he naked? Probably since last night, when he used his boxers to clean up and… shit. _Shit._

“HEY, SLEEPING BEAUTY!”

“I SAID HOLD ON!”

Jeans. Jeans are good. 

He snatches them off the floor and jams them up, pulling his shirt on after them. He’s at the door in two long steps and tugging the thing open.

Dean’s leaning hard against the doorjamb with one hand and a half-desperate look on his face which might have been funny if it wasn’t so creepy. 

“Dude… am I fired?”

Sam laughs, running a hand though his hair. “Uh, no. No, I don’t think so.”

Dean releases a heavy sigh, letting his head drop forward with relief.

“Did you just get here?” Sam asks, squinting against the brightness outside.

“Yeah, drove pretty much all damn night.” Dean grins, looking up at him again. “You know this place is a bitch to find your way around?”

“Tell me about it.”

Dean eyes him. “Did you... just get up?”

“No.” Sam furrows his brow. “I mean, well, maybe.” 

And then Dean’s laughing, shouldering his way into the trailer with that big stupid smile across his face that he always gets when he’s far too content with himself - like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders.

“I knew this would be good for you, get some of that hard ass law student out of your system, have some fun! That’s what summer’s actually for, you know?”

“I have fun,” Sam insists.

“Sammy,” Dean gives him a pitying look. “Cross referencing will never be a party, no matter how much college BS you cover it up in.”

Sam shuts the door behind him, suddenly realizing just how badly he needs to brush his teeth. And find clean boxers. And a shower. Definitely a shower.

“Sweet set up. Did you borrow this from Bobby?” Dean asks, eyeing the RV’s interior.

“Nope,” Sam says. His foot catches on something. Boxers. _Shit_. He kicks them quickly off under the mess of the blankets. “It’s actually supposed to be yours.”

“What?” Dean asks, turning, suddenly wide-eyed.

“This,” Sam says, gesturing around them. “Castiel told me they got it for you, something about not wanting to cram you in the trailer or—”

“You talked to Cas?” Dean says sharply.

Sam stares at him. Dean’s focus has telescoped in with nearly unmatchable speed.

“Yeeeah… wasn’t I… supposed to?” Sam tries.

Dean does that thing where he opens his mouth and then realizes nothing is coming out and hurries up to try and fix it.

“Uh, well, yeah, yeah of course. I just, I don’t know. I guess. No, no, of course. Right.”

Sam squints. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Dean says firmly, turning to the cabinets above the sink. “I just haven’t had breakfast.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Most important meal of the day!” Dean beams over his shoulder. He pops a cabinet open. “Hey! You got my favorites!”

Dean turns back with Fruit Loops in one hand and Coco Puffs in the other, big stupid grin plastered on his face.

“Yeah, not me,” Sam says, smiling weakly, “Pretty sure it was ‘Cas’. I can't take any credit. He set the whole thing up expecting you, not me, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” And his mouth is hanging open again.

“Want some of that?” Sam says, gesturing to the cereal. “Get a proper start?”

“Most definitely,” Dean agrees. “Where are the bowls?”

Sam drifts over to the fold-out table between the bench seats and collapses. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Dean runs his finger over a few of the cabinets, glancing around the rest of the place as Sam glances after him around the kitchen.

He actually hasn’t gotten a good look at the place until now. Yesterday he pretty much just dropped off his shit before his training started and last night… well… he didn’t notice a lot last night.

He’s sitting at the small foldout table which is tucked between bench seats that wrap all around it except for the side facing the kitchen. The flimsy stairs lead outside just behind the dining arrangement, and he’s facing the bathroom which just barely fits a shower head, sink, and the world’s smallest toilet. He knows his back is to the bed, which was wasn’t that uncomfortable now that he considers it.

It’s pretty tight, he doubts they could fit three more people his and Dean’s size in here without making it critically cramped. But it’s clean, and simple, and well, yeah, not bad at all.

“Ah, and the winner is me.” Dean grins, tugging out two bowls from their hiding places and plopping them down on the counter.

“How’s the car?” Sam asks, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. That’s the last time he’s drinking during a show that he has to clean up afterwards.

“Oh, you know her.” Dean smiles as he pulls open the little fridge and is rewarded with milk. “She’ll stick with a fella.”

“God, how much time did you spend with Bobby?” Sam groans.

“Hey, had to make sure she was tip top,” Dean continues as he pours, “Don’t want to have to hold anyone back here do I? Speaking of…” He slides a bowl in front of Sam and scoots in across from him. Both their knees barely fit under the thing at the same time so Sam swivels so his poke out the front. 

“Is he pissed?” Dean asks. Sam looks at him. He has the serious face on again.

“Who? Castiel?”

Dean inclines his head a bit in affirmation. His cereal is still waiting untouched. Huh.

“Uh, no, no I don’t think so,” Sam says. “He doesn’t really seem like the ‘pissed’ type, to be honest.”

Dean's face relaxes into a slight smile and he finally takes up a big spoonful of rainbow. “Yeah, right.” 

“I mean, I know this whole musician cliche is supposed to come with a certain amount of zen but I think he takes it to a new level. He acts like he’s barely seen the world before.”

“I know, I know.” Dean grins into his cereal.

Sam frowns, “How do you know? Have you met?”

Dean’s avoiding eye contact. “Uh no, not exactly… we’ve just, well, talked, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Email, okay, we’ve emailed.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, “…Extensively?”

Dean rolls his spoon around his cereal and shrugs in that faux casual way of his. “Maybe… four years?”

“Four years?!” Sam yells. “Dude!”

“What?” Dean yells back, meeting his stare. “What’s so weird about that?”

“Four. Years. Dean!”

“What? Jesus, Sammy, you’d think you’d never heard of the internet before, christ.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam presses.

“Tell you what?”

“I don’t know, that you have some rockstar pen pal you’ve been chatting with for four years?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean says, not looking at him in a way that pretty much screams ‘this is a gigantic deal’.

“So,” Sam continues, “You’ve uh, never met him before?”

Dean scoops up some more vaguely pink milk. “I’ve seen shows. But that was before, I mean, they haven’t toured in a while. At least not anywhere I could get to easily. They did Europe last year, and the year before that was an album year and the year before that was album prep and then before that Luke was doing some sort of loner phase or some bullshit--”

“In other words, no, you haven’t met.”

“No, okay? No.” Dean admits. “I just, he told me they were going to tour this year so I asked if they needed help.”

“And he said yes.”

Dean shoves a spoonful home. “Yup.”

“Huh,” Sam says.

“What?”

“Oh, it just makes more sense now. I mean I knew you were into their music and everything, I just didn’t realize you guys were actually friends.”

“I don’t know about ‘friends’,” Dean says quietly.

Sam laughs, “Dude. You’ve been talking to him for four years. What the hell have you been doing if not making friends?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, looking up at him, “But I do know that I almost fucked it up. I could have lost something that means a lot to me. And thanks to you I didn’t.”

Sam smiles. Dean is at his best when he’s grateful. It really doesn’t happen as much as it should.

Dean smiles back. “You really came through, man.”

“Hey,” Sam says. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Dean nods in acknowledgement. He understands. Not many other people do. They always come through. They have to come through, for each other at least, because sometimes that’s all there is.

“But,” Sam continues, “If I dropped an amp wrong or mixed up the fiddles and the violins and they come in here and fire us, I still get credit for the effort.”

Dean grins, “Did you seriously mix up fiddles and violins?”

“Castiel’s a very patient teacher.”

Dean’s still laughing, “Dude, did you help with anything?”

“Hey -“ Sam insists, “I moved things. Heavy things. And I had to deal with bullshit rockstar pick up lines, which was _not_ part of the job description.”

“They’re not really ‘rockstars’, Sammy,” Dean starts and then suddenly focuses, “Whoa, whoa, wait, who hit on you?”

“Throw a dart.” Sam scoffs.

“Well, aren’t you just the prettiest girl at the prom?” Dean grins.

“Shut up.” Sam glares.

“No, seriously, who was pushing your buttons, or trying to?” Dean grins lewdly, “Gabriel? It wasn’t Luke,” Sam rolls his eyes. Dean’s tone gets serious, “It wasn’t. Was it Luke?”

“Yes, alright, the guys a complete dick,” Sam says, and immediately resolves to stop using Luke and ‘dick’ in the same sentence. No, scratch that, the same thought.

“Really?” Dean laughs and leans back, spreading his arms across the back of the seat, “My little Sammy, getting picked up by Luke Milton.”

“Not picked up.” Sam snaps turning on him firmly, “Definitely not picked up.”

“I know, I know, you don’t bat for the home team,” Dean says waving a hand at him, “But seriously, you should at least be flattered.” 

“Is that right?” Sam scoffs. “Should I be swooning over the jackass with entitlement issues?”

“Just saying,” Dean says. “You know he dated James Bond for like three months a few years back? Pretty badass.”

Sam stares. “That sentence made absolutely no sense.”

“Not the real James Bond, you moron,” Dean sighs, leaning forward again, “The actor. That dude who won that oscar or whatever last year.”

Sam furrows his brow. He actually saw most of those movies and he’s not really impressed with shit like that because that’s a pretty stupid thing to even worry about but… well.

“…Seriously?” He asks.

“Seriously.” Dean grins. “The dude has taste, I’ll give him that. Jackass or not. Except in your case. Obviously.”

Sam’s suddenly trying _very_ hard not to imagine _very_ specific things involving guitars and tuxedos and .39 caliber pistols.

“Hey,” Dean adds, “At the very least you tell some chick at a bar that Luke Milton wanted a ride on your disco stick and she’ll have you in the back of her Lexus before you can blink.”

Sam forces a laugh, “Yeah, right.”

“Well,” Dean says, standing up and taking a few steps to drop his bowl off in the sink, “I guess I better let them know I’m here.”

Sam’s not totally hearing him. There’s still mental images he’s frantically shoving off into the wings.

“Got to make sure there’s no more fiddle-violin mixups, eh Sammy?”

Dean lands a heavy hand on his shoulder. Sam jolts out of an image of handcuffs and loosened ties.

“What? Oh, yeah, right, right, good luck.”

Dean squints at him for a minute. “Yeah, thanks.”

Sam tries to smile.

“You sticking around? It would be good to chill for at least a bit before you head back to the land of the tight ass.”

“What?”

“Lawyer drone world?” Dean raises a brow, “You know? Those summer plans I was so thoughtlessly interrupting?”

“Oh, right, yeah…”

“I bet you’re practically rocking one already at the idea of getting back to all that paperwork, huh?”

Sam’s suddenly having a hard time focusing.

Summer. Internships. Right.

Why had he forgotten about that?

“Yeah, of course,” he manages.

Dean shakes his head. “Look dude, get more sleep if you need it. It’s still your place for now, right? Unless you want to split, I know how douchey those professors of yours can be and you did hold up your end here so—“

“No,” Sam says, far quicker than he meant, “Not yet.”

Dean’s staring at him.

“I mean,” Sam catches, “You’re right. I haven’t seen you since Christmas. We should have some time.”

“Yeah,” Dean grins, “A beer or two at least, maybe catch tonight’s show?”

The show.

“Yeah, maybe.” Sam attempts a smile and it must come off alright because Dean reciprocates and tromps back down the stairs.

“Don’t leave the milk out,” he reminds as he heads out the door.

It shuts behind him and Sam hears his booted steps moving steadily off into the distance.

“Sure.” He says quietly. “No problem.”

 

Dean takes a deep breath and it smells like beer and dirt and all things awesome. It’s going to be a good day. He’s sure of that, and if he repeats those words enough maybe the stupid twisted feeling in his stomach will respond. 

He’s not nervous. He’s got no reason to be nervous. It’s a job. That’s all. He’s here to do a job, a great job. You’re supposed to be excited for shit like that, aren’t you? Not that he would know… he’s never really had a new job before.

Dean’s just excited, excited and too hyped up after drinking six cups of coffee in the past three hours and driving all night. That sort of behavior would make anyone edgy, not just a guy who’s about to meet the dude who sort of accidentally saved his life.

And shit. Thinking about that _really_ isn’t helping.

No. It’s fine. It’s a gorgeous day. He’s at a fest. He’s going to see his favorite band. He’s going to work with his favorite band. A little coffee jitters and unfortunate mental phasing isn’t going to ruin this for him.

He turns a few corners and heads towards the bus he knows is the right one, softened grass and close to muddied ground squishing under his boots as he goes.

He checks his phone quickly to make sure it isn’t too early. Nope. Still past noon. That should be fine. Right? Unless… maybe they were up partying. Maybe they wouldn’t even hear him if he knocked. The bright metal outside of the bus is getting way too close way too fast.

Dean stops suddenly about five feet from the door.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Why couldn’t he just stay and help Bobby work on the cars where things were simple? He could still fall asleep to their albums and practice their chords on the weekends. He could still respond to Cas’ emails each night with his first beer like he always did. He still had that.

What if he messed this up? It wasn’t impossible. In fact, it was _likely_ , wasn’t it, given his track record?

It was possible, at the very least. He could knock on that door, and Cas could open it up and see him and he might not be what he expected. He might be the opposite of what he expected. And he would humor him, because he’s a nice guy and he wouldn’t be a dick. He might even let him stay for the summer. But when the tour was over, and Dean went home, he would sit there, staring at his empty inbox and drinking his beer, and know he’d ruined one of the consistently good things he had going in his life.

Was he ready for that?

No. No. Definitely fucking not.

“Dean?”

Something horrible grips his stomach and he turns around with wide eyes to find the source of the gravelly voice.

“It is, Dean? Isn’t it?”

He has blue eyes.

How has he never realized that before?

He looks like he has in internet photos, magazine spreads, album covers, drenched in stage lights twenty feet away and up on a glowing stage. He looks just the same, which, well, duh, of course he does. He doesn’t know why that surprises him so much.

“Yeah.” Dean swallows. “Hey Cas.”

Cas smiles. 

That’s different. Dean can’t remember him smiling in any photos he’s seen. Well, not really smiling. Sometimes his lips pull up, softly, on the edges, but not like this. He’s beaming. Dean’s stomach flips, and suddenly any illusions he had about what this was fly right out the window.

He’s not here because he wants to start a career as a roadie. He’s not here because he’s a musical admirer who wants a closer look. He’s not here to try to make friends with rockstars.

He’s here because he stumbled into a crush on a bass player one night and fell in love with an email signature two years later. 

“You made it,” Cas says. He’s still smiling.

“Yeah,” Dean says instantly. He clears his throat once to get the dry out. He can’t seem to stop looking at him. “Of course I made it.”

“Sam said that you had some car trouble? Your Impala?”

“Yeah, but she’s fine, she always comes around, always will.” Dean smiles back.

Cas nods quietly. He looks a little tired, eyes a bit heavy and groggy. His hair’s all messed up and pushed around - but hell, it always is, isn’t it?

“Look man, I’m sorry I didn’t get here when I said I would.” Dean swallows.

“No,” Cas breaks in firmly, “Please, don’t worry about it. You’re here now.”

“And damn happy to be,” Dean answers.

Cas glances down towards his own bare feet. “You didn’t have to send your brother, you know.”

“Shit,” Dean winces, running a hand behind his neck, “He wasn’t that bad, was he? I know he’s sort of a doofus sometimes.”

“Oh, no, no,” Cas insists, shaking his head like he thinks he’s said something stupid, “He was fine, great, really.”

“Just didn’t know the difference between a fiddle and a violin?” Dean grins.

Cas smiles back at him.

Shit. He’s never, _ever_ going to stop loving that.

“I just meant, we would have waited. For you. I mean.” 

The breeze picks up slightly and buffets the awning they’re under to one side. The sunlight hits Cas’ eyes and the blue brightens sharply for half a second before he squints.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cas says. 

Dean tries to swallow the jumping feeling that builds in his stomach.

“Well, I might not be as intimating to a crowd, but at least I can tune a guitar.” He shrugs.

“No I...” Cas trails. He edges one of his bare feet back and forth against the grass. “It’s good to meet you. Finally.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles back. He knows he’s staring. He knows he has been, and he knows that his voice is softer than it should be. But hell, he can let it slide, just this once, just for a minute longer. “You too.”

Off in the distance he can hear bits and pieces of music, jumbled together over the sounds of the crowds. The breeze is still pushing the awning above them, sending Cas’ face into the light every second or so and Dean’s starting to realize he could probably stand there a heck of a lot longer, with just the gentle sounds and the feeling of sun on his back. With him. 

And fuck, what the hell has be gotten himself into?

“Do you want to meet the others?” Cas asks.

“What? The band?”

“Of course.”

“Totally!” Dean beams, and shit, not cool. He clears his throat. “I mean, yeah, sure.”

“Hold on one moment, I’ll just wake them up—“ Cas starts to turn.

“Whoa, hey!” Dean catches his arm.

Cas stills, the skin of his forearm warm under Dean’s hand. Dean releases his grip immediately, maybe too fast. 

“I mean, don’t wake them up. It’s not a big deal. I’m sure we’ll get there. Later tonight, right?”

Cas nods. “If you wish. Truly they should be awake already, they’re far too indolent.”

Dean shrugs. “Artists, right?”

“That would be the standard excuse,” Cas sighs, brow furrowing.

He still looks half tempted to step inside and wake them up regardless of Dean’s protests.

“So,” Dean says, breaking through that train of thought, “Want to show me the ropes?”

Cas frowns, “Which ropes?” 

 

The place really comes to life in a whole new way when the sun goes down. Sam makes his way steadily over the grounds, following the worn down paths towards the stage that he knows Dean will be setting up.

He feels like a bit of a dick for falling back into bed and accidentally sleeping for another three hours before finally getting a proper start to the day… well, evening, by that point. But hey, didn’t Dean come here to do all this stuff on his own in the first place?

Anyways, he needed some time to think. He still needs some actually.

Part of him is still kicking his own ass for not leaving straight off this morning. After all, the sooner he gets on the road the sooner he can get this summer back to normal. There’s those internships and summer classes and everything else that he knows he should be anxious as hell to get back to. He’s still not sure how and why Dean of all people had to be the one to remind him of that.

It’s not his fault. He was exhausted. That’s all. And yeah, okay, maybe a little bit ‘ _confused’_ \- in big fat euphemistic quotes, but everyone gets a bit of that, don’t they? Isn’t that just part of the whole messy human condition?

Anyways, it didn’t matter - doesn’t matter. He’s thought it out. It’s all sorted now.

He told Dean he was staying for the show with him, and he will, because it really has been too long, and if he happens to lock down some personal clarity at the same time, well, bonus. 

Last night, well, it happened, and he’s not going to be the lame ass ignorant douche who just pretends it didn’t, who swipes it off as some accident or stupid mistake. It happened. He was attracted to him, because well, singing like _that_ he was really fucking attractive. And it wasn’t the guy - the guy was a dick - it was the atmosphere, the art form, all of it, and it combined into something raw and sexual and new, and he did what he needed to do. There’s no reason to feel bad about it, to work himself over. It was something he did, nothing he needs to be ashamed of, nothing he needs to internally cower away from.

He gave in. Nothing wrong with that. And now he can move on.

Probably.

One more show. He’ll just stand there with Dean and he’ll have a beer or two and they’ll watch the show. He got it out of his system. He had a moment, and the moment passed. He can stand there tonight, and hear him sing and play that guitar. He'll watch the show, and it won’t be the shock that it was last night, it won’t sneak up on him. He’s worked it out, gotten past it. He’ll watch the show, he’ll give Dean an awkward brother hug and some smart ass goodbye, get in his car, and drive back to his summer.

And if he hasn’t worked it out, if for reason he gets in there and that voice starts and he’s as helpless and stupid as he was last night and all he can do is watch the way his mouth hangs on the notes and his eyes slip shut and body rolls into the music… well, he’ll deal with that if it happens.

Which it won’t.

Probably.

Sam’s at the stage sooner than he realizes and he can already seen the familiar short-haired back of a head handing a guitar up to a tech.

“Hey!” Sam calls.

Dean turns, face breaking into a smile. “Hey, Sammy!”

He gives a wave to the tech and heads in his direction.

“Missing that physical labor already?”

“Not so much,” Sam says, “You know, I think my back actually still hates me.”

“Wow,” Dean starts. “You know, that’s actually depressing.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m in the garage every weekend anymore.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d turn into a complete pansy ass.”

“Keep it up and this pansy ass will kick yours.”

Dean laughs holding up his hands, “Jesus, point taken. It’s not your jam anyways man, I get that.”

“Seriously though,” Sam says, “You still working? Can I help out?”

“Nah, we’re almost done, got the instruments all set anyways, just a few more checks and then we’re good.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You’re pretty good at this, huh?”

Dean glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice, “I might have practiced.”

Sam nods, “Of course you did.”

“Hey - studying, right?” Dean says. “You do it. Same thing. Different goal post.”

“I guess.” Sam shrugs. “So, should I grab us a good seat, some beers?”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean says, “Hold on, seriously there’s only a few more things. Chill here, I’ll be back. We can grab ‘em together, yeah?”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, “I’ll be here.” 

Dean grins at him and then turns, swinging himself up onto the stage and heading back towards the front at pace, running a careful eye over the wiring as he goes.

Sam can’t help laughing to himself. Dean looks happy. Stupid happy. He actually can’t remember the last time he saw his brother looking so, well, just contented. He fits here. He slides right in like Sam knew he would. It’s nice. Great.

He wonders when the last time was he looked that happy.

It’s not that he isn’t enjoying life. Not at all, not even close, it’s just… different, he guesses. He’s busy. Busy sometimes makes happy a bit confused. He loves what he does. He liked school and he likes preparing for actual practice even more. Sure, it can be rough sometimes. Education at his level does not come without a fair share of douche bags, and the truth is that sometimes the whole academic structure makes him wonder, but it’s a means to an end. He’s busy now, sometimes too busy to really take the time to enjoy what he’s doing. Maybe there’s something concerning in that…

He knows he needs to get back because it’s what he _should_ do. And what he wants to do. But come to think of it want should probably come before should in his mental validation process.

“Late for work?”

Sam manages not to jump. Barely.

He swallows once and turns to face the voice.

“Aren’t you early?” Sam says.

Luke’s wearing pretty much the same thing as last night. The jeans are black instead of just dark and the t-shirt has a white graphic of a silhouetted guy with an eagles talons deep in his stomach. He’s still got a little dark eyeliner around the edges of his pale blue eyes, hair more slept on than styled. Sam’s pretty sure one of his boots is untied.

“Showing up early last night proved pretty interesting.” Luke smiles, “I thought I might see if I could find myself an encore.”

“Sorry, I’m not feeling all that amusing.” Sam says.

Well… this is weirdly easier than he thought it would be. 

There’s no immediate violent sexual stirrings, no powerful urges to grab him by the shoulders and shove him against a wall with a tongue down his throat. 

Without the stage presence it is different. Without the music he’s suddenly pretty much what he was the night before. Arrogant. Assuming. General jackass.

Sure, maybe if Sam looks too hard at his eyes his neck starts to feel a little hot and he probably shouldn’t look at his mouth for too long, but still. He’s fine. Mostly.

“Prometheus?” Sam asks, gesturing vaguely at the shirt.

“Mm,” Luke notes, looking down at his own chest, “You noticed.”

“Well, it is plastered on your chest. Isn’t noticing the point?”

Luke looks up at him again, all lazy smile and sparking curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“Sort of morbid, isn’t it?” Sam frowns.

“Rock n’ roll, Sammy.” Luke grins. “Anyways, I can relate.”

“You relate?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “To Prometheus?”

“I do feel as if I provide a certain service to mankind.” Luke shrugs.

“Jesus, is that it?” Sam says. “‘Lucifer’, your little crowd nickname? Prometheus? Beings who bring the power of forbidden knowledge to the masses and suffers punishment for it?”

Luke holds his stare, that weird air of contented intelligence hanging around him.

“Seriously?” Sam stares. “You think you’re Prometheus? You’re Lucifer?”

“‘Think I am’ is a bit dramatic. I said I relate. The provision of knowledge takes many forms, Sam. I like to think I’m giving some truth back to the universe.”

Sam shakes his head with a laugh. “Wow. You really give arrogance a whole new level, you know that?”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam says, “And you know it too, which makes it like a hundred times worse, so don’t act like you don’t.”

Luke smiles slowly, crossing his arms across his chest and widening his stance.

“Did you like the show?”

Sam glances away from him, looking for Dean. What’s taking him so long anyways?

“Sam?” Luke asks.

“What?” Sam snaps turning back to him. “Yeah, sure, it was good. Fine.”

He’s not thinking about the show. Not while he’s standing right there.

Lucifer narrows his eyes, “Good? Fine?”

Sam meets his stare. 

Fuck it.

“It was great.” He says. “Amazing. Actually. I was surprised.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Luke says, “You seemed to enjoy it.”

Sam starts. “I- you could see me?”

Luke’s eyes shine. “Very clearly.”

Sam can feel his neck getting warm again.

“Actually,” Luke continues, “You make it slightly challenging to focus on much else.”

“Look, man,” Sam says quickly, “I told you, you can pack that stuff in with me, okay?”

“I can,” Luke says with a lazy smile, “But I won’t.”

“Well, not really up to you,” Sam says. “It’s my last night, so I’ll be taking my distraction elsewhere.” 

Luke’s eyes narrow, “Is that right?”

“I was just doing Dean a favor. He’s here now. Favor done,” Sam answers.

A small frown catches on his eyebrows. “Disappointing.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam lets his sarcasm flow. “Very disappointing.”

“And when are you leaving?” Luke asks quietly.

“I don’t know exactly,” Sam sighs, “Tomorrow. Probably.”

“So,” Luke’s eyes glint against something deviant. “You’ll be staying for the show.”

“Seems that way,” Sam answers, glancing over his shoulder to search for Dean. “Anyways, he’s way better at all this than I’ll ever be, so-" He turns back.

Luke’s gone.

“Alright!” A voice over his shoulder calls out closely followed by Dean’s hand landing solidly on it. “Beers?”

Sam spins a little too fast to face him. He looks back again to where Luke had been standing two seconds ago. Nothing.

“Dude, are you _still_ less than conscious, or what?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Sam’s still glancing around. Nothing. Well, it hardly matters. He turns back to Dean with a grin. “So, how about those beers?”

 

As far as first days on the job go, Dean’s pretty damn contented with his. Sure, it’s not even close to over yet, but that just makes it even better, which is really saying something. He’s still got the best part - the show he actually helped make happen - and then some tear down and meeting the rest of the band and beers and booze and just general awesome.

And until then he’s here, with Sammy and beer and when did his life actually start turning into something this good? He’s almost worried that if this keeps up he’s going to get all antsy that something terrible is waiting in the wings, but it’s just one day. He can handle one insanely good day, before he starts glancing over his shoulder for stray lightning bolts or escaped tigers or something along those lines.

“Cas was saying the show went well last night. You saw it, right?” Dean asks, leaning on the rail of the level they’re standing on just above the rest of the crowd.

“Yeah,” Sam says, quickly taking a sip of his beer, “It was good.”

Dean’s tempted to push it, but he doesn’t. Sammy’s been a bit weird all day. Well, sure, he would be, wouldn’t he? Here in this environment, which must be alien and strange to the long suffering tight ass. Dean’s not even sure if he’d even ever _seen_ live music before, but he’ll lay off and not poke and prod at Sammy like he deserves because he’s still come through in a pretty major way when all’s said and done.

“So you liked it?” Dean presses his luck.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and there’s that glimmer of discomfort again. “Yeah, like I said, it was good. Great.”

“You sure?” Dean continues, leaning on one arm to face him better.

“Yes!” Sam insists before downing another sip, “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Dean shrugs, holding his hands out innocently, “You just seem a little edgy about it is all.”

“What do you mean, ‘edgy’?”

“I don’t know,” Dean sighs and leans his back against the railing. “You just act like you didn’t like it is all. Which you don’t have to, you know. Hell, I’m not gonna hold it against you.”

“No, it’s not—” Sam starts before sighing and doing that stupid thing he does where he shakes his hair out of his face like a horse or something. “I liked it, okay. A lot. I was surprised. I didn’t think it would… it wasn’t what I was expecting.”

Dean frowns, “I’ve played you their stuff before, though. I mean, I do listen to it, you know, a lot.”

“I know,” Sam says, “It was just, I don’t know, actually seeing them. It was different.”

“Yeah, live shows can be like that, I guess.” Dean says, with an air of experience. “The energy, all that,” he adds, waving his beer can with a vague gesture.

“Yes!” Sam exclaims with sudden enthusiasm, brandishing his own beer can for emphasis, “Exactly! Energy. Lots of energy.”

“Totally,” Dean agrees, even if he’s not totally sure why Sam’s so stoked on it. Hell, at least he’s getting into something that isn’t two hundred pages ass deep in some law encyclopedia. Who knows, maybe this can be one of those fabled “bonding experiences”.

It really has been a while since they talked about much, besides just the usual sibling stuff which typically degenerates into Dean telling Sam about whatever crotchety shit Bobby’s been up to in the garage lately, and then Sam tries to tell Dean about his job and Dean gets lost and frustrated and Sam tries to explain which makes him frustrated right back.

He’s not going to deny that stuff got a little harder when Sam went to school. He’d known it would. He’d wanted him to, of course, bugged him about his applications practically every damn day. But that didn’t change the fact that when it actually came Dean got so depressed that he… well, sent an email. And now here they are.

Funny how that works out sometimes.

“I’m glad you’re into it,” Dean admits, “I mean, it kicks serious ass, so how could you not be? But still.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, leaning back against the opposite railing, rolling his beer around his palm. “It’s just so… _real_ you know?”

“Yes.” Dean agrees. “Exactly. It’s, I don’t know, _soul grabbing_.”

“Totally!” Sam’s eyes get all wide as he shoves the beer in Dean’s direction in agreement. “That - exactly that, ‘ _soul grabbing_ ’.”

“I mean the way that Cas plays!” Dean starts without thinking. “He just _gets it,_ you know he just really _gets it_ , it’s like something else, something ethereal almost.”

He stops. Sam’s staring at him with this little obnoxious smile of his face.

“Oh my god.” Sam grins.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“You’re one of them.”

“One of what?”

“One of those Castiel fangirls, the ‘Followers of the Lord’!” Sam laughs.

_Fuck._

“I am not.” Dean huffs, looking away quickly. 

“There!” Sammy really need to stop laughing. “See! You know what they are, you totally are one!”

“Bite me, alright Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head, trying to keep the giggles down with another sip of beer.

“You’re going through that fast.” Dean notes, eyeing the can. “Did this little adventure do you that much good already?”

“Hey! This was your idea.”

“Whoa,” Dean raises his hands. “I’m all for it, man, you know that. It’s about time you actually had fun, for once in your life.”

“I have fun.” Sam pouts.

Dean leans back smugly, “Name the last time you had fun. _Real fun_. Not ‘ah yes, now all my pens are perfectly aligned in order of utility’ fun.”

Sam glares at him. He opens his mouth like he’s going to try and come up with an excuse but the crowd bursts out into sudden cheers and shouts and his head is swiveling fast.

Fine. He’ll let him off this time.

Dean turns towards the stage himself, giving a few good “woooooh!”s and a few solid claps as the dark shapes of Cas and the rest of them settle onto the stage. He feels Sammy moving up closer beside him to settle against the railing, waiting with the rest of the crowd for the show to start.

Dean can feel his heart starting to thud in his chest, pounding out the anticipation under his skin. It’s been too long since he’s seen this, since he’s seen them, him.

He can tell easily enough which one is Cas, even with the lights low, and yeah, the big standing bass is a bit of a give away, but even without it, he has those careful little motions that the others don’t. There’s always an easy reserve to him, and he always wears that stupid backwards tie when he’s on. Dean can see it swinging silhouetted as Cas leans over to check his mics and amps.

And then the lights flood the stage and Dean’s standing straight up, clapping hard and cheering as loud as he can with the rest of the crowd, ignoring the sense that Sam’s rolling his eyes halfway back into his skull next to him.

Luke steps up to the mic and the crowd quiets like it always does. Slowly, he wraps a hand around it. His eyes drift over to Cas who meets his look. Luke gives a nod and Cas’ fingers start moving.

They dance down the strings - calm, collected, and nimble as hell. He has his head down, bobbing slightly to keep up the beat as his one shiny shoe picks up that rhythm, and shit, no one should look that good.

Cas gets the intro going for five seconds, maybe ten, and Gabriel’s picking up a beat behind him.

Dean knows the song instantly. He knows them all instantly. But damn, it’s really been too long.

Cas strums through the first intro lines and then Luke is tightening his grip around the mic, pulling it close as his eyes drift shut. He starts to sing.

And wow… it’s good. Real good. It’s better than Dean ever remembers it being.

He can feel his own lips ghosting over the words as his foot taps out the beat, eyes tight on the way Cas’ hands dance over the strings. His concentration is so vivid and so still and the _sound_ \- god, it’s what music’s supposed to be. It’s deep and real and full of soul and power, and Dean feels alive, really, truly alive, for the first time in a long time.

They sound good. No, more than good, he realizes. They’ve always sounded good, great, but this is just a whole new level.

The chorus snaps in and Luke’s singing the song in a whole new way, dark and raspy on the edges like something off some busted old southern gothic LP, which Cas and Gabriel seem to take as a challenge because they match the sound, driving the rhythm rough and hard, and Dean’s suddenly letting out a cheer and clapping hard above his head.

“Shit!” He yells. “God, I missed this!”

Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean really doesn’t want to drag his eyes away from the stage but he glances over at him anyways.

Sam is staring at the stage. Not watching, not glancing. _Staring_. Like he’s trying to set it on fire with his brain. He’s leant half over with one hand tight on the rail, another around his apparently forgotten beer. There’s a slightly panicked expression on his face and something deeper than that, something totally possessed. 

“Uh, Sam?” Dean tries.

Nothing. The laser focus doesn’t flinch. Jesus. 

“Hey! Sammy!” Dean yells.

He moves to tug at his shoulder.

“I don’t want to go.” Sam says suddenly.

Sam’s still watching the stage. He’s hardly moved. And hell, it’s loud, Dean’s not even sure he heard that right. He can’t have heard that right.

“What?” Dean yells back.

Sam turns, eyes landing dead on his and there’s something wild there, something Dean hasn’t seen in a long time.

“I want to stay.” Sam says. “I don’t want to go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam swallows and stares into his drink. To be honest he’s not sure he knows the neat and tidy sexuality label for “100% straight except I want to fuck you when you sing and I have no idea why, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and if it keeps happening I’m going to run away to live with monks who only care about the metaphysics of time, and devote my life to making goat cheese on some distant mountain no one’s even heard of”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! Sorry this is a bit late. I might be later posting the next chapter: 1 - because it's like twice this length, and 2 - I'm getting married tomorrow so that might take up some time :P

“What the hell do you mean, you want to stay!” Dean snaps. “I mean, where the hell does that even come from?”

He puts down the amp he’s carrying off stage before turning on Sam for emphasis. They got through to show. He wasn’t going to let it ruin a totally awesome performance, not that they could even get close to talking there above all the noise, but now the show is over and Sam’s lumbering behind him with a speaker tight to his chest looking almost as confused as Dean feels.

“I don’t know!” He insists, putting his amp down beside Dean’s. “Look, I just… maybe you’re right, okay, maybe I don’t have enough fun.”

“I _am_ right, and you definitely don’t,” Dean acknowledges firmly. “But ‘fun’ and doing me a favor that turns into stealing my summer job are two pretty fucking different things, Sammy.”

“Hey!” Sam snaps, lining up the guitars against the backstage wall. “I am _not_ ‘stealing your job’. I would never. I just… want to help. That’s all. I like it.”

Dean stares. “‘Like it.’” He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You _like_ carrying around amps and organizing instruments and wading through beer-soaked crowds each night before the show?”

“What?” Sam shrugs. “You like it.”

“Yeah.” Dean glares. “I also love the shit out of corn syrup, think that being knee deep in engine oil is good way to spend a day, and know the names of ten different kinds of cartoon porn.”

Sam sighs in that annoying way he always does and turns towards him. “Look, Dean, you’re always telling me I should do more stuff like this.”

“Yeah, and you tell me to fuck myself. That’s how it works. You’re screwing with the whole natural order here, Sammy, and it’s making me think bits of sky are going to start smacking me in the head!” 

Sam’s shoulders are going all stiff like he’s getting pissed. Actually, he’s looked like he’s had a pole crammed up his ass since the show started, which really isn’t fair because Dean’s the one who has a right to be pissed here. And it’s not that he wouldn’t be stoked to spend the summer with his brother - hell, that would just top this whole thing off with a cherry - but that’s too good to be true, and this was the plan he’d made. He’s never really had a plan before. He’s going to stick to one, for once.

Hell, Cas said they never even had a single roadie before, much less two. This whole thing is just going to explode in his face, exactly like he knew it would.

“I’m not stealing your job, Dean,” Sam says. Dean looks up. He’s sat down on one of the speakers nearby and he’s staring off at nothing in particular. “I know how much this means to you. I just… I just want to stay. I don’t really get it. And I know it’s stupid, but maybe I have been working too hard. I don’t know.”

He shakes his head and his absurd hair tumbles down into his face.

“It’s been a long time since I really did something on an impulse, you know?”

Dean snorts because yeah, no shit.

“I mean, after Dad died, I went to school for myself.”

Dean can’t help glancing away. He really wishes he would stop putting it like that. But that's always been Sam.

“But when I decided I was going to go, when I realized I was going to make a life for myself, I guess I just focused on that so hard and I haven’t stopped since. I just thought, well, if this is what I’m going to do, this is what I’m going to do. And I figured if I paused maybe I would lose hold of something… but I think maybe something else has slipped away because I was holding that so tight.”

“Jesus Sammy, I get it. We don’t have to go all Oscar Nomination here. You work hard. You want to try to have some fun. It’s not all that complicated.” Dean picks up another amp because, hell, at least he’s going to do his job while he has it. “I just don’t get why now.”

Sam furrows his brow. 

“Neither do I.” Sam mutters at his feet.

Dean glances over and thinks he might be blushing but it’s dark and that’s moronic, so no, must just be that whole physical labor thing that law school doesn’t really expose you to.

“Alright,” Dean says finally setting the amp down next to all the rest. “Whatever you need to do. I’m not going to stop you. Stay. But you have to ask.”

“Who’s staying?”

Dean whips around in the direction of the voice. There’s a guy standing about three feet away and eight inches below his immediate field of vision staring at him and Sam with a thrilled little smile. It’s an expression Dean recognizes way too easily.

He’s apparently changed out of his stage clothes into something a little more normal, pretty standard stuff under a big cargo jacket. He still has glitter in his hair, though, and his expression really covers all the bases of deviant infantility without any help personal style.

“Nothing, we’re just talking.” Sam says quickly.

Dean’s still staring at the guy in front of him. He had never actually realized he was _that_ short before. Behind the drums it can be hard to tell. Maybe they put him on apple crates during photoshoots or something.

“Does he talk?” Gabriel asks, tilting his head to gauge Sam’s reaction without looking away from Dean. 

Sam elbows Dean in his ribs.

Dean coughs and looks away, trying to pretend he didn’t get star-stuck by a dude who takes makeup tips from Ke$ha.

“Problem?” He asks gruffly, doing his best to make up lost ground. 

“You tell me.” Gabriel raises an eyebrow, “Seems like an interesting conversation.”

“It’s not.” Dean insists firmly.

“I want to go on the tour.” Sam says, _right out of fucking nowhere._

“Sammy!” Dean snaps turning to face him.

Gabriel’s looking at them like they’ve transformed into unicorns on the spot, letting out a short and giddy laugh. 

“Can we talk about this later?” Dean asks Sam, voice low and harsh.

“What’s the big deal?” Sam insists, “I just wanted to ask. You said I should ask.” 

“Hold it, hold it, hold it—“ Gabriel breaks in, shaking his hands at them. “I’m sorry, you really can’t deny me this moment.” And then he’s snatching at each of their arms and pulling them across the stage.

“Whoa, hey!” Sam yells, trying to wiggle free. Dean’s way too surprised at how creepily dextrous this guy apparently is, shifting his freakishly strong little hands around each move they make to ensure their continued capture.

“We’ve got tear down!” Dean insists, staring at his wrist in shock as he tries to free himself.

“No, you don’t.” Gabriel reassures him, grin still taking up most of his face.

And then they’re down the stairs behind the stage and Dean looks up to see them heading right for Cas and Luke who are approaching from the direction of the buses.

“Hey, hey!” Sam suddenly yells.

“You’re the one who asked!” Gabe shouts back.

“Asked what?” Luke says, close enough now to be giving the scene a slow smirk.

“Gabriel,” Castiel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Stop manhandling the employees.”

“My pleasure,” Gabriel grins, stepping back two steps and swinging Winchesters to the front on either side. “Sam has a question.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dean growls.

“You said I should!” Sam insists.

“What question?” Cas frowns.

Sam goes quiet suddenly. He glances up at Luke, not without a small amount of disdain, and then looks away again towards Dean.

Dean shrugs because fuck he’s already half way there. “Get it over with.” He sighs.

“I want to stay.” Sam says in the direction of his feet.

Dean can’t help noticing the way Luke’s eyes light up like someone set off fireworks behind them but he hardly moves otherwise. The slow smile simply spreads across his cheeks, hungry and flashing. 

“What’s that, Sam?” Luke asks.

Sam looks up, right at him, and Dean knows that face. He knows to leave it alone in a back room and not poke it with a stick.

“I want to stay. I want to do the tour.”

He holds his stare and Luke doesn’t flinch. But Dean’s not really looking at them anymore, he’s trying to glance at Cas’ expression without _actually_ looking at him.

“Oh.” Cas says.

“Yeah.” Gabriel says, sounding way way too pleased with the situation. “So what do you guys think? Should there be trials? Contests? Can we vote?” 

“Sam,” Luke says instantly.

“Hey!” Dean and Sam yell at once.

“Stop it,” Cas says firmly.

Dean looks at him then. There’s something weirdly panicked in his face. 

“It’s Dean’s position.” Cas reiterates, and then, glancing at him sideways and softening his voice, “If he still wants it, of course…”

“Yes!” Dean says _way_ too fast. Shit. “I mean, of course. I signed on, right? I want the job. Definitely want the job.”

“Hold on,” Luke says suddenly, “Why do you get to just _decide_ who we take on? Since when are these _minority_ rulings, Castiel?”

Irritation sparks under Cas’ blue eyes, “Since I asked you what you thought and you said ‘I don’t give two fucks who carries our shit’.”

Sam scoffs, looking at Luke like he’s just busted the asshole meter.

“Circumstances have proven more interesting,” Luke insists.

Castiel ignores him, “I’m sorry, Sam, but we only allocated the budget for one roadie with our manager, and he can be slightly pedantic.”

“Pedantic… more like Reich regimental.” Gabriel snorts.

“Gabriel!” Castiel scolds.

“Not untrue,” Luke notes.

“In any case, I’m sorry, but we did not arrange appropriately.”

“You don’t have to pay me,” Sam says.

Everyone goes quiet suddenly. Luke’s staring at Sam in a whole new way.

“Excuse me?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, excuse me?” Dean confirms.

And Sam’s actually almost blushing - jesus, what the hell is going on with him?

“I don’t need cash,” he insists. “I just have to make a few calls and I can get a sublease set up in my place back home in a couple of hours. I’ll stay in the RV, go on the tour, room and board is fine, so to speak.”

“Oh my god,” Gabriel laughs, “He’s running away to join the circus. It’s too adorable, Cassy, we can’t just-“

“There is not much space in the RV, I didn’t plan on-“ Castiel frowns.

“Plenty of room in the bus,” Luke notes casually.

“No.” Cas and Sam say at once.

Dean sighs. Well, he knew this wasn’t going to work out just like he’d planned. He’d never really thought it would. Reality doesn’t work out like you hope it will. That’s pretty much exactly what makes it reality. Stuff shifts, and things adjust, and in the end what you come out with is all you were ever going to have. He has a job. And it’s awesome. And he has a brother, and hell, most of the time he’s pretty awesome too. All considered, things could be worse.

“Look, Sammy, are you sure? I know you had all these summer plans and-“ Dean starts.

“No.” Sam says firmly, with the air of someone trying to end the argument. “I mean, yes. Yes. I’m sure.”

“Alright. Then we’ll make the RV work. God knows we’ve done more with less. And we’ll split my wages.”

“Dean, no-“ Sam insists.

“I’ll pay him.” Luke says suddenly, “I can pay him.”

“No,” Sam says with a grit to his teeth.

Dean frowns. “Uh… why not?”

“Just no. Look, I said I don’t need pay, and I meant it.” Sam says, looking at Cas. “So, if that’s alright, and if you’d like me to stay, I’d like to.”

Cas holds his gaze for a moment and then looks at Dean. Dean swallows but smiles. Cas looks back at Sam and quietly nods.

“ALRIGHT!” Gabriel suddenly explodes behind them. “Now, can we all stop bitching and consume some alcohol for the love of all that is holy?” 

“Sold.” Dean grins. “Just let us finish cleaning up the stage.”

“Forget that.” Gabriel says wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders. “Let the home crew finish up. We have celebrating to do.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but he catches Castiel’s eye. Cas just smiles back, light and welcoming, so Dean keeps it down.

“Well,” Luke grins. “Welcome to the fold.”

Dean can’t be sure but he thinks he sees Sam swallow.

 

“Alright!” Gabriel announces cracking his knuckles as he pulls the tour bus door open. “What are we having?”

Sam ducks his head a bit to get through the door and then rights himself and looks around as Dean squeezes in behind him.

It’s bigger than their RV - well yeah, of course it is - but for some reason he was expecting that there would be only so much you could do with a something on wheels. He realizing now he was damn wrong about that. It’s pretty much like a living room, a fairly posh one. There are nice wooden counter tops on the kitchenette that sits on one wall with attractive, shiny metal appliances that he thinks might be nicer than the ones in his actual apartment. Around the next wall and circling up the back are long leather sofas covered with pillows, headphones, a guitar, tossed jackets and jeans. 

Dean lets out a low whistle from his side. “Damn, guess it pays to be good.”

Castiel is hurrying around trying to pull clothing off the sofas. “It’s very untidy, I apologize.”

Dean scoffs. “Please, this is nothing. It’s awesome!”

Sam’s still trying to take it in. “Where do you guys sleep?”

“There are bedrooms in the back.” Castiel answers.

“Would you like a tour?” Luke’s voice is close behind him and soft in his ear.

Sam steps further inside as quickly as he can manage. “No. Thanks.”

“Helllooo?” Gabriel presses, gesturing to the _packed_ and open drinks cabinet. “Inebriation? Celebration? Remember?”

“Jesus.” Dean gapes at the booze. “This really is the promised land.”

“Ladies' choice.” Gabriel grins.

“Tequila?” Dean asks.

“No!” Luke and Gabriel say at once.

Sam double-takes between them. “Uh… problem?”

“Yes,” comes the emphatic reply. Exactly as Cas says, “No.”

“Cassy isn’t allowed tequila,” Gabriel says firmly.

“Not after ‘the incident’,” Luke adds walking towards the couches. 

He squeezes behind Sam as is necessary to get past the kitchen and Sam feels his own body go rigid like a gun’s gone off and all he’s aware of for half a second is the feeling of Luke’s belt sliding against the back of his pants and the smell of smoke and whiskey and then he’s past him, sliding onto the leather of the sofa and shoving some of the mess aside.

Sam swallows.

Dean raises an eyebrow in Cas’ direction with a smirk. “You let them tell you what you can drink?”

Cas goes a little pink. “No, it’s really best for everyone that way.”

“Moving on-“ Sam hints strongly.

“Too late,” Gabriel says, “Bored now. _Bartender's_ choice.” He grabs a thick bottle full of amber liquid and five glasses, swaggers over to the couches and plops down. The glasses hit the built in wooden coffee table between the leather seats with a soft clink. Gabriel fills them all about double what Sam normally takes and doesn’t seem to think twice about it.

Dean snatches his up in a second. Cas noticeably scoots over on the couch and Dean sort of glances over at the newly open space and then carefully sits down next to him while the rest grab their own glasses.

Sam rolls his around in his hand, watching the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass and then gently shift back down.

What the hell is he doing?

Something new. Something that’s exciting in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time. He’s terrified and confused and more than a little lost. But maybe that’s what has thrills sneaking down his limbs even now. He’s out on a ledge. And he’s going to see what just happens.

“Carpe diem.” Sam says lifting his glass.

Castiel smiles softly and tosses back his down.

Sam glances over to Luke. The pale blue eyes are sharp and alive and holding tight to his. He raises the glass to his lips and slowly, with a few thick drags, the whiskey’s gone.

Sam looks away, clears his throat and takes a long gulp of his own, letting the burning numbness of it slip down his throat and catch heavy and silky over his limbs. He collapses down on the couch with the rest of them.

“The show was great by the way. Really, real fucking great.” Dean says, leaning back against the leather and downing some more.

“Thank you,” Cas says.

“It _was_ pretty good, wasn’t it?” Gabriel grins.

“Gabriel,” Cas scolds.

“What? It was awesome!”

“Totally. Different though,” Dean notes, “I mean, I’ve listened to you guys plenty, but I’ve never heard it like that. The sound, way dirtier than usual, where’d that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, turning on Luke, “Where the fuck did that come from?”

Luke shrugs, not without eyeing Sam again with a slow smile. “Inspiration, I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, warn us next time, huh?” Gabriel says, “If I still have arms tomorrow I’ll be surprised, I feel like they’ve been through a pasta maker.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Luke says, leaning over to fill up his glass again.

“And you’re no help!” Gabriel yells, tossing a hand in Cas’ direction.

“What did I do?”

“Encouraging him like that,” Gabriel pouts. “Jesus, I thought you two were going to play each other’s hands off.”

“I do not encourage.”

“Bullshit.”

“Now, now,” Luke tuts.

Gabriel snorts. “Listen to you, your voice is still raw. You can’t keep that up, you know.”

Luke’s eyes glimmer. “Watch me.”

“Okay, I think we can stow everyone’s junk now.” Dean grins, leaning in for his own second glass. 

“Agreed,” Cas grumbles.

“Where’s the party anyways?” Sam asks, glancing out the window.

“Right here, kiddo.” Gabriel grins.

“Really?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “I thought you big ‘rockstars’ really put the rest of us to shame. Where the tigers and strippers and jello pits?”

“You should have been with us in LA,” Gabriel says.

“Actually,” Castiel says, “That behavior is fairly cliche and considerably irresponsible. We need to be capable of doing our jobs, after all. Mostly...”

“You guys are the most boring musicians ever,” Gabriel groans, “ ‘No Gabriel you can’t turn your bedroom into a ball pit’, ’no Gabriel we can’t keep falcons in the bus’, ‘no Gabriel we can’t have girls lying around on the couch like the best pillows ever invented!’”

Dean raises an eyebrow, “No girls? Seriously? Then what’s the point?”

“Thank you!” Gabriel says, “Exactly, what’s the point?”

Sam eases back into the couch, the last of his drink burning down his throat and making his limbs go loose and his mouth forget to watch itself.

“Why no girls?”

“That’s not a rule,” Luke insists.

“Well, while I appreciate the contours of the female form,” Gabriel says, “He’s gay,” He gestures in Luke’s direction, “And Cas is in a long term relationship with his hair shirt, sooo—”

“Man, I can’t imagine giving up girls,” Dean sighs, leaning back further. 

Sam can’t help snorting because jesus christ, how drunk is he already?

“What?” Dean says, “Girls are awesome.”

“Damn straight.” Gabriel says raising a newly filled glass.

“How can you skip out on that?” Dean asks in Luke’s general direction. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, guys are fine. But girls, man. All those smooth lifts, those little curves and rises all so keyed in and soft and just awesome.”

Gabriel gives a heavy sigh.

“I can appreciate the attraction,” Luke insists.

“Just from a safe distance?” Dean scoffs.

Luke eases into the sofa, his jeans stretching over his legs as he puts a hand behind his head and shuffles his hair around slightly.

“The sexual appreciation is different. Women are different.”

“How so?”

“Women slip apart,” Luke says. “They ease around you, like a wave that builds and crashes and pulls back again. Women are rhythmic and liquid.” His eyes darken against his drink. “But men, men _break_. They hit sex like a brick wall and shatter against it.”

Sam’s throat’s gone dry. Everyone else has gotten weirdly quiet.

“Let’s just say I like hard edges more than soft ones, and while the ocean is nice, there’s nothing quite like a storm,” Luke concludes. 

The quiet lingers. Sam’s suddenly sorry he drank that whiskey so damn fast.

“Well,” Dean clears his throat, “I’ll drink to that.”

“I’ll say,” Gabriel says, leaning over to clink his glass against Dean’s.

“So?” Gabriel waggles a brow at Dean as he throws a foot up on the table, “I take it you’re a twice the fun kind of dude?”

“Could say that I guess.” Dean shrugs. Sam can’t help noticing the way Cas is looking at the table like he’s trying to pretend he isn’t listening.

Sam smiles to himself. It’s almost adorable.

“Let’s just say,” Dean continues, “I’m a starting shortstop in softball, and hardball, well, more of a relief pitcher.”

“And what about you, legs?” Gabriel asks. It takes Sam half a second to realizes he’s actually talking to him, and shit, he really is a little too drunk.

“What?”

“He told us so definitively the other night,” Luke drawls, eyes teasing, “Don’t you remember?”

Sam swallows and stares into his drink. To be honest he’s not sure he knows the neat and tidy sexuality label for “100% straight except I want to fuck you when you sing and I have no idea why, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and if it keeps happening I’m going to run away to live with monks who only care about the metaphysics of time, and devote my life to making goat cheese on some distant mountain no one’s even heard of”.

“He told _you_ ,” Gabriel insists, “You and the general populace of humanity don’t actually amount to the same thing.”

Luke rolls his eyes like he thinks that fact alone makes the answer unchanged.

“Come on, Sam,” Gabriel grins, “Share with the class.”

“Nothing to share,” Sam insists, rolling his shoulder against the sofa and taking another sip, which, _shit_ , he really has to stop doing, but it is _really_ good and it’s been so long since he just drank for the hell of it. “What can I say. I’m boring.”

“No one’s boring,” Castiel says quietly.

“Almost everyone is boring,” Luke corrects, “But most people are only dull because they choose to be.”

“Hey - off topic, guys.” Gabriel insists. “Seriously, Sam. No one goes without trying a bendy straw at least once.”

Sam laughs. “Sorry to disappoint. Guess I just never really saw the point of bendy straws.”

“But you must have tried-“

“Never have,” Sam says. He thinks he might be blushing but he’s 90% sure it’s just the booze. “I just… haven't.”

He suddenly feels Dean staring at him, “Dude… seriously? Not once?”

“Yes!” Sam insists, verging on laughter, “Not that it’s any of anyone’s business.”

Dean snorts out a laugh, “Come on, Sammy, seriously. You must have at least kissed a dude. Once. What the fuck did I send you to college for?”

“No! Okay, I haven’t!” Sam exclaims, sitting up abruptly.

And then everyone is staring at him in quiet surprise.

“… Never?” Castiel suddenly asks quietly.

Gabe’s laughter tries to escape out his nose first and then Dean’s cracking up and Cas’ face is splitting into a slightly drunken grin.

Sam can’t help smiling along with them as he shakes his head. “It can’t be that big of a surprise.”

“No, it can, actually,” Gabriel insists. “Jesus.”

Sam leans forward to fill up his glass and takes a quick chance to glance in Luke’s direction. He’s not laughing. He’s staring at him. And Sam can’t help staring back. His eyes are burning, sharp and blue and full of something _starved_. Sam can almost feel that look sliding down his limbs like lightly dragged nails. He looks away.

_Fuck._ This was not a good idea.

What even was this idea? Why is he here? Why is he sitting on this couch, telling total strangers things he doesn’t normally talk about with close friends? And why is he drinking his second _massive_ glass of whiskey?

Does he want something to happen here? Is that what this is? He's trying to have some big crazy gay summer romance? He’d known he needed to stay after the show. He can’t deny that. And yeah, okay, there was no pretending he didn’t have some pretty vicious sexual emotions rolling around in his stomach. But did he really want to go after them? Hell, if he wanted that he could have that solid frame hiked up around his waist, tasting the salt on his neck and feeling those clever hands slipping around his back, thumbs sliding down under the waistband on his jeans right this second. 

But he didn’t.

He was here, sitting on the couch, still convinced that the guy looking at him like a present he wants to rip into is one of the most massive tools he’s ever met.

And shit, maybe that’s why he’s here, to sort out the discrepancies in all of this, the irritation and the sex and the confusion.

If he leaves now, he’ll never know. If he leaves now he might always wonder what would have happened, what could have happened, and how that might have changed him or left him exactly the same. 

He’s been so set on a path with well defined landmarks for years now, and maybe he wants to wander down one totally unknown for once. He doesn’t know if he’s going to end up someplace new or right back where he started. He has no idea. But not knowing… well, that’s sort of something all on it’s own, isn’t it?

“Well,” Dean says, his face getting that droopy happy look it always does when he’s flirting with the edge of drunk, “Here’s to bad influences.”

“To good whiskey,” Sam slurs.

“And slippery girls,” Gabriel grins.

“And fractured boys.” Luke smirks.

Castiel raises his glass. “To new friends.” He glances at Dean. “And old ones.”

The glass clink and Sam drinks and tries not to think too hard. Fuck it. He deserves a summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they didn't have to do trials, but Clara came up with such good ones I had to share: The first trial… to slay a tub of jello and bathe in its blood. The second trial… to free a member of the band from a holding cell and deliver them unto a good tavern. The third trial… to cure a hangover.
> 
> And now I'm bummed I didn't put them through that gauntlet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Still what?” Sam snaps, “You think Socrates was any different from a law student? Let me tell you something: no one, _no one_ who legitimately accepts their own ignorance goes around picking morality fights with the host at parties instead of just enjoying the dip. You might be Socrates, but frankly he was a big of a dick as you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering what the fiddle song is at the end of this chapter, start [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xeneq5TeU8) at 4:00 and then mentally combine it with [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=In6_KQNWrTc) (the bass drum is a bit distracting in that recording but it’s worth it to see the performance and when they do that song on stage they really kick their asses)

Sam’s breathing in steam and heat and the smell of him, all whiskey and smoke and electricity. His hand is caught tight in blonde hair, saturated to a brunet under the heat of the water. The shower crashes down over them, not quite loud enough to overpower the fast, labored breaths pushing out of Luke’s chest. 

Sam dives down, forcing Luke’s mouth open again with his own - he feels him groan against his lips, tasting copper when he pushes just hard enough, teasing his lip against his teeth. And then Sam’s catching hold of his legs, lifting him up and shoving him back hard against the slick of the wall, sliding his cock right into the warm wet space between his hip and his thigh and rocking into him as he holds on, little sounds slipping free, grunts and pleas and whispers, but Sam simply tightens a hand in his hair hard enough to turn all that into a sharp hiss of pain.

“Shut up-“ Sam’s gritting his teeth, mouth pressed against the raw line of his neck and then he’s moving, adjusting, sliding the head of his cock under the slick curve of his ass and—

“SAMMY FOR FUCK’S SAKE, ITS MY DAMN TURN!” 

Sam’s eyes open abruptly and reality pours back in with a vengeance.

The sound of the shower clatters around him. The pace of his hand on his cock falters and he mouths a few swears against the wall of the shower.

“ALRIGHT HOLD ON!” He yells back.

He waits until he hears Dean chuck a few swears at the door and then stomp off again, leaving just him, alone, staring at the empty white of the shower wall in front of him as water droplets form, grow, and weigh heavy enough to slip down the plastic.

Sam swallows, adjusts his grip, and closes his eyes until he can taste bourbon breath agains his own again.

 

Austin had been hot. New Orleans is even hotter. 

It’s heavy heat, the kind that weighs on your shoulders and sinks in, clinging thick and wretched to your skin, and if Sam didn’t get out of the shower in the next two minutes Dean was dragging him out by that stupid ass haircut himself. 

Dean groans and leans back in the bench seats of the kitchenette, bracing one foot against the stupid flimsy table and holding his ice water up to his already sticky forehead.

It hadn’t been the most awesome twenty-four hours if he was being totally honest with himself.

Austin had been a shit show and a half. They hadn’t gotten there until _two_ hours before the show was supposed to start, because it had taken way too long to decide which car the RV was going to get tacked onto. They’d finally managed to settle on Sam’s shitty yet fuel efficient import with the horsepower of a damn riding mower.

It had worked, so far, even if they hadn’t been able to hit over 65MPH the whole goddamn ride. But they’d gotten there, finally. Dean could tell Luke was irritated as hell, and he’d apologized at least ten times but each time he did Cas just insisted it wasn’t his fault, which was both agonizingly endearing and busting his balls with the effort it took not to tell him to shut up and take the damn apology. 

In the end they were so late that Cas had to help them set up in order to make the opening time and Dean was left feeling like an asshole for the next six hours. Even through the show he couldn’t manage to shrug it off. After all, Cas was up there, playing in the way that only he could, doing _his_ job, after doing Dean’s for him, and all because Dean’d gone ahead and made this ten times more complicated than it needed to be.

Sam had looked like death after the rush of the set up, totally beat, covered in sweat, and if Dean’d had the stomach for it he would have given him significantly more shit for letting law school turn him into a total pussy. But he hadn’t had the energy, and Sam didn’t seem to hear anything he said anyways… He’d hung on the rail behind the crowd, looking half drowned from the heat and the exhaustion, that is until the guys came on stage and then he’d stood there fucking _transfixed_ until the music ended. Then he’d barely stayed standing during teardown, which they had to do in less than an hour because New Orleans was _the next fucking day_.

Cas’d offered to help them drive, but Dean had simply waved him off, maybe a bit more brusquely than he would have if he were more than half conscious, but hell, he was just trying to prove to him that he could actually do this job after all. 

The next eight hours had been just fucking Christmas. Nothing but a long stretch of black road, blanched in the circles of headlights, from 11pm until fucking 7am, and by the time they pulled into the lot behind the venue for that night’s show Dean didn’t even have the energy to care that Sam’s feet were in his face and that he’d taken the only pillow without even asking before crashing into a coma. He _did_ notice in the morning, when Sam rolled over onto his arm so hard and Dean yelped awake and tried to pull it back by kicking against the wall, which only resulted in him falling right off the damn RV cot onto his own boots.

That was the last time they were sharing. He was done. He’d hated it enough when they were little. The Impala would do him just fine from now on. Sam could have the stupid RV bed with the saggy center and he could tangle the blankets up and thrash his stupid long ass legs around all he wanted. It’s not like it was supposed to be Dean’s RV or anything anyways.

Dean sighs. He tries to focus instead on the numbing cold of the ice water on his head, the small drops of condensation gathering up and slipping down the side of his temple.

It wasn’t all that bad. It was a new day. He has to remember that. Maybe today he’ll actually get a chance to talk to Cas without hauling an amp across a stage, fifteen minutes to go before lights up. 

They've made it to New Orleans - a pretty fun town, even if it had the climate of the devil’s ass crack. They had a show, but it was only noon. They could take their time. Today would be better. If Sammy managed to drag his ass out of the shower that is.

“SAMMY I SWEAR TO GOD—“

There’s a quiet knock on the door.

Dean puts his glass down on the table and shoves his way out of the cramped seat. He pulls open the door.

“Hello Dean.”

Cas looks exhausted. And… those must be Gabriel’s cut offs.

And he should probably stop staring at them. _Shit_. “Hey, Cas. How’s it going?”

“Hot.” Cas pouts with all the attitude of a cat that’s being held in a lap it’s not happy with.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean runs his forearm over his head to swipe off the moisture left over from the cold of the glass.

“How did you sleep?” Cas asks, eyes lifting.

“Sleep isn’t exactly a challenge when you’ve been up for a day and a half.”

Cas huffs.

“What? No sleep for you?” Dean asks.

Cas runs a hand through his already mussed hair, “Gabriel can’t sleep in the heat. And I can’t sleep with his whining and thrashing as incessant background noise.”

Dean laughs, “Brothers, huh.”

“Useless.” Cas says, a small smile hiding in the corner of his lips.

Dean looks away a little too fast, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“Look, Cas,” He starts, “I know I might have been a dick yesterday. I just wanted to do a good job, because, shit, that’s what I’m supposed to do, and what with Sammy making stuff complicated, I just wanted to show you I could do it, and, well, I guess I might have gotten a bit touchy.”

“Dean,” Cas breaks in.

Dean looks up.

“I know you can do it,” Cas says. And jesus, he really sounds like he does. Which is stupid, really. How the hell does he know? How does he know Dean’s not some slacker jerk-off who came around for a free ride? He has no way of knowing anything like that.

But he’s not going to be a dick. “Sure,” He shrugs, forcing a smile.

Cas’ eyes intensify. “I mean it Dean. I’m glad you’re here. This isn’t about you proving yourself as an employee. This is a team. And you’re part of it.”

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing seems to want to come out of it so he shuts it again.

“Yeah,” He says finally, and it actually feels warm enough in his chest to almost mean it, “Alright, Cas.”

“Good.” Cas nods. “Now, I wanted to show you the stage. The set up will be slightly more complicated here since it’s a trust.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Dean grins.

“You don’t…” Cas trails. He glances down from Dean's face and his cheeks go a little red. “Did you want to get dressed?”

Dean instantly looks down and _shiiiit_ since when is he not wearing a shirt? And dammit, now he’s blushing, and jesus christ, he’s never going to make it through this summer alive.

“Shit,” He swears, turning, “Sorry, I just, shit, hold on one second.”

Cas is still looking firmly at his feet. “Take your time.”

 

The crowd is surging, pushing back and forth like an ocean just below them. It’s been dark for at least an hour, but the sky is still glowing orange just over the wide spread branches of the trees that separate the park from the rest of the pulsing city. The moss sags down over them as if the heat is too much for it as well, and there’s not even a breeze coming in over the wide brown length of the Mississippi as it drags itself ever onward just past the stage.

Sam allows his eyes to slip closed for a moment, shutting out the thronging masses swaying over the heavy grass of the park, and letting every other sense flood in. Overall, Sam’s been pretty shocked at some of the smells this city’s had to offer, but here, inside the park, it’s not quite as dramatic. The things that grow here have a heavy indulgent smell to match all the rest of it, floating lazily through the thick air, intermingling with the scent of the river, all freshwater and silt. And then there was the city mixing in, sweet and sick, like Bourbon, or more like Bourbon that had already gone through a digestive system the wrong way around. There’s no breeze, so the smell of the city doesn’t press, merely hangs, sultry and self satisfied like the rest of it. 

It suits the sound.

The music feeds off of it. Everything weighs, heavy and indulgent, like a long drag of sweet liquor. It’s darker than it has been before, it feels slower even though he knows it isn’t, and even though it’s languid, there’s life pulsing hard just under the surface. It’s full of promises and barren of excuses, like some drunken dance, limbs all weight and barely contained lust. No, not a dance, more like real sex, _slow_ sex - just pressing and pulling, lazy and hard and so damn long and drawn out that everything melts and tightens at once leaving just the rhythm and a pleasure that makes your head light and your self awareness slip away in pieces off your sticky skin.

Sam lets his eyes open, and they barely make it half way.

The band floods back in, purple pink and red under the lights. He can feel Dean standing a little ways off, laughing, cheering with some of the local techs and tossing back a few as he tells them all the stories about just how lucky he’s gotten in this city.

Sam hardly hears it.

This was all easier last night. It had been so much simpler to just tell himself no, to push aside all the thoughts crowding tight and hot into his brain, and tell them they could wait. But that’s all but impossible now. He’s beat and has barely been conscious most of the day. The lazy haze of the city has already opened him up and he just doesn’t have the energy to push against whatever tries to shove it’s way in. So, the thoughts slipped, leaking in at first and now pouring down over him like syrup. 

And he lets it happen.

He watches, eyes heavy, leaning his weight over the railing enough to hide whatever the hell his body chooses to do with the fuel his mind is throwing on it. 

Luke’s head is down, eyes tight on the guitar hanging low on his hips. His hands are dancing, driving out the pulsing sound beat after beat. He lolls his head back, never stopping, never slowing, eyes shut, face skyward, shoulders loose, letting it all flow out of him.

And Sam’s mind drags its way through the images. 

Sam has him shoved down on his knees, jeans stretching tight over his thighs as he runs an open mouth along the length of Sam’s cock, leaves him feeling the rumble of his voice all the way down. Luke’s trying to smile, skin sticky and hot against the leather of the sofas in the bus, but he can’t quite manage it with Sam that far down his throat, and he lets out a little sound of surprise when Sam knits both hands tight in that blonde hair and fucks down even harder. Sam has him shoved up on the small sink in their absurd little RV bathroom, Luke with one foot braced against the opposite wall, rocking down firmly as Sam grunts into his neck and and grinds against the friction of his jeans, tugging at his belt and thumbing open those stupid pink briefs—

“Ground control to major Tom.”

Sam turns. Dean’s glaring at him.

“What?” Sam asks, trying to make his voice sound normal and adjust his hips enough to get anything incriminating into a halfway subtle place.

Dean shakes his head with a sigh, “Dude, I explained this like six times. We have to get everything ready to clear the stage ASAP. There’s a band after us, remember?”

“Yeah, but... they aren’t done yet.” Sam says.

Dean looks at him like he’s the reigning moron champion. “No, they aren’t. That’s why we have to get ready. There’s only two more songs on the set list.”

Jesus, how long had they been standing there? He can’t even remember how many had played so far.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, let’s do it.” Sam says. He stands up, trying to shake the lazy arousal off of his shoulders as he follows Dean back.

Breakdown is sticky and miserable. Sam’s really starting to hate the Mississippi - the least it could do is give off a bit of a breeze, but no, it just has to sit there, pushing slowly forward while the sweat beads on his forehead and catches in his bangs.

Getting everything off the stage was… interesting. It was a thrust, so it went out into the crowd and everything had to be on extensions in order to get to the back where the power was. All of that and they had to clear the bands stuff off the stage in fifteen minutes because the next guys had to load in. And all that really boils down to Dean “whooping” as they walk back towards the bus half an hour later for celebration, raising his hand for a high-five while Sam tries to think of dead winter and heavy dry snow covering everything, but they did it, so Sam manages a smile and gives Dean the affirmation he’s waiting for.

“Now, _that_ is good work!” Dean grins, keeping half a step in front of him as they get closer. “Got to hand it to you Sammy, you’re getting better at this.”

“Yeah, well this fucking heat isn’t doing me any favors.”

“Better than the cold.” Dean shrugs.

“No,” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.” Cold is better. Cold is always better.

Dean opens his mouth to say something but the door in front of them is suddenly flung open, and four multicolored lawn chairs are launched out so fast Sam has to jump aside to avoid getting nailed in the shin. 

Gabriel’s beaming out the door from under a panama hat with a cigar between his teeth. “Buckle up boys, it’s julep time!” 

 

Two hours later and Sam’s smiling into his third drink, watching how the ice cubes push the mint around the glass when he swirls it. The heat’s still awful, but somehow with the sun down it’s _just_ that much better, and with an icy drink in his hand, easing his posture back into something boneless, well, everything about right.

“So Luke is trapped in the hippo enclosure, and the whole crowd thinks it’s just the best thing ever because I guess that’s how that goes over there.” Gabriel’s laughing so hard Sam can’t believe he’s still holding his drink, but to be fair they’re all laughing pretty damn hard. “So they’re cheering and laughing and taking photos—” 

“This really is a very boring story,” Luke mutters, sinking deeper into his lawn chair.

“So he starts trying to climb up the glass wall, and you can guess how that goes.” Gabriel continues. “Meanwhile he’s covered in pond scum and soaking wet, looking like a drowned cat, and this hippo couldn’t give less of a fuck.”

“Hippos run at eighteen miles-per-hour and weigh eight thousand pounds.” Luke continues. “They strike out of nowhere.”

Gabriel ignores him. “So, it’s just staring at him, looking _very_ threatening enjoying a mouthful of weeds, as he’s spazzing out trying to climb the tree near the wall, leaving a boot behind and making these crazy ‘intimidating’ arm gestures at the thing in case it decides to ‘ _charge_ ’.”

“Two thousand nine hundred hippo attack deaths in 2012.” Luke mutters bitterly. “Those are the facts.”

“How the fuck did you get out?” Dean manages, wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye as he tries to get ahold of himself.

“Castiel _eventually_ heard Gabriel in hysterics and dragged himself away from the monkey enclosure. He found a rope and pulled me out,” Luke finishes firmly.

“A rope?” Gabriel snorts. “It was three jump ropes tied together that he confiscated from little girls.”

“Oh my god,” Sam gasps, leaning his head back and gazing up at the sky.

“Like I said. Rope.” Luke insists.

“And that.” Castiel sighs. “Is why we never did Japanese TV interviews again.”

“How the hell did you even end up there?” Sam asks, rolling his head to the side.

“They said they wanted to shoot us all with our _soul animals._ ” Gabriel’s snatching the pitcher off the ground and leaning over to refill everyone’s glasses. “They’re apparently into that.”

“I’d like to point out that I didn’t ‘slip’ I was obviously pushed by _someone_.” Luke says defensively. “And anyways, I was supposed to get a tiger.”

“Hey,” Gabriel grins, “The hippo is a proud icon of masculinity.”

“And death.” Luke notes seriously. “Lots of death.”

Cas is giggling into his drink like a five year old, stretching his feet out long and lazy in front of him and wriggling his toes against the grass. Dean’s smiling at him and everything else with this lazy half lidded expression, too sunk into his chair to seem much of any use, especially after Gabriel challenged them to a cartwheel contest half an hour ago, which Luke won proudly, and he’s still got the grass stains on his knees to prove it.

The city doesn’t smell all that bad, really. In fact, there’s flowers here Sam hadn’t remembered from those few weeks they spent in the area as kids. There’s a redolence of orange and lily and other heavy sultry smells easing around corners to join the sweetness of mint and bourbon on his tongue. Off behind him there’s the just distant enough sound of music echoing out to bounce off the river.

“This is good.” Sam says. Out loud. Huh.

“Old family recipe,” Gabriel says, raising his glass.

“Nah,” Sam slurs slightly, “I mean… this. The whole thing. I like it.”

“Geez Sam,” Dean grins, “Try to contain that excitement.”

“Really,” Sam insists. “They music, the stupid RV, the whole thing. It’s good. It’s fun.”

He thinks Dean might actually be beaming at him but he’s a bit too hazy to really try to notice. 

“I’m glad you think so.” Cas smiles.

“I mean, I didn’t. At first. I _really_ didn’t,” Sam says. _Still_ out-loud apparently. “I didn’t get why people would _ever_ choose to spend their time like this. Just seems so monumentally lame.”

“Wow, tell us what you really think, kiddo.” Gabriel snorts.

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s just ‘not me’ I guess. I mean, I get it for Dean, he started playing the guitar listening to you guys and knows all the songs by heart so—“

“Sammy!” Dean shouts, sitting up a little too fast. 

“What? It’s true,” Sam finishes. 

Luke’s chuckling into his drink and Cas has gone a little red around his ears which is nothing compared to the color Dean is turning.

“Seriously? Deano? You know all the songs?” Gabriel’s grin is massive. Shit-eating would be a pretty colossal understatement.

“Maybe. A bit.” Dean shrugs, brow furrowing like it always does when he’s trying to act like he’s too chill to be bothered by anything. “They’re good songs.”

“Play one.” Luke says, sitting up without a second of hesitation. “I’ll get my guitar.”

“No!” Dean shouts.

Gabriel leans forward eagerly. “Yeah! Play us something. Ladies choice?” He shoots with a grin in Cas’ direction.

“No. Definitely not. Pass.” Dean insists.

“Aww come on!” Gabriel presses. “Don’t be shy, Deany!”

“We won’t judge,” Luke argues, adding with a sharp smile, “Much.”

“Comforting.” Dean glares.

“He said he doesn’t want to.” Cas says quietly.

“Thanks Cas.” Dean smiles.

Gabriel makes a cooing sound. Cas kicks him in the shins.

“I’m too drunk anyways,” Dean adds. “It would sound like shit.”

“Which is so different from how we sounded just now?” Luke says. 

“Shut up,” Dean shoots. “You know you were awesome.”

Luke smiles in that self satisfied way Sam’s starting to hate more every time he sees it. He’s far too tempted to stick a leg under his lawn chair and knock him backwards. Very tempted. He’d just have to stretch his foot out, juuuust a bit—

“Sam?”

Sam looks up quickly. “What? Huh?”

Luke’s leering. “Were we ‘awesome’?”

Castiel sighs into his drink as if he’s been cursed with underestimated plague of wretched siblings. 

“Good show,” Sam concedes. “Gets worse every time you drag compliments out of it.” 

“What? You don’t enjoy being complimented on your work?” Luke asks. “Your professors don’t dish out cookies for their coveted ‘correct’ answers.”

“Luke,” Cas scolds firmly.

Sam leans forward, keeping himself pretty well upright by leaning on his knees. “You know, for someone who’s so damn secure in the enigmatic nature of the universe, you certainly seem to need a lot of approval.”

It probably would have sounded a lot better if he didn’t slur over “enigmatic” but still, he thinks he got his point across. 

“Maybe I just like it when you pull my pigtails.” Luke grins.

And _fuck_. That’s gone exactly to that place in his stomach it shouldn’t go.

“Luke!” Cas scolds firmer.

Gabriel let’s out a low whistle and leans back for the show.

“You like attention.” Sam continues. “Any attention.”

“Not the hippo's.” Gabriel adds off to one side.

“Certain attention," Luke clarifies

“ _All attention,_ ” Sam affirms. “Is that really what makes this you such a bearer of ‘universal truth’. You really just need someone to notice you?”

Luke grins and leans back. “ ‘ _I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good, but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know anything, so I do not fancy I do.’_ ”

Dean stares. “Say what now?”

But Sam’s already there. “ ‘ _I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know._ ’” He can’t help laughing in dumb shock. “You’re such a massive blowhard. Are you Socrates now too? What a shock.”

“There’s a point worth examining.” Luke says, easing back and running the side of his glass along his jaw in the heat. “You think that I need attention, approval - but you, you seem to be quite set on basing your life on principals that are entirely based on _societal_ approval.”

“And sooo...?”

“So: you accept a system that fancies it knows something, you fancy you know something.”

“And you don’t?” Sam snorts.

“Okay guys,” Gabriel sighs, “Let’s put those classics boners away before someone loses an eye.“

“ _Art,_ ” Luke continues, ignoring Gabriel easily, “Does not define knowledge and present it as fact. It simply takes shots in the dark. It’s an acknowledgment of ignorance. It’s an acceptance of the vast unknown.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, and a society with no accepted systems or morals is going to get far enough to manage making art. That’s bullshit.”

Luke shrugs. “People accept those who say they _‘know’._ And if no one questions it, well, who says they’re right?”

“It’s held accountable. That’s the law. That’s the point.”

“Still.” Luke shrugs.

“Still what?” Sam snaps, “You think Socrates was any different from a law student? Let me tell you something: no one, _no one_ who legitimately accepts their own ignorance goes around picking morality fights with the host at parties instead of just enjoying the dip. You might be Socrates, but frankly he was a big of a dick as you are.”

Luke just stares, a sort of stunned smile slashed over his face. Off to his left Cas’ giggles escape in one snort and he covers his mouth, shaking slightly as the rest of them pour out. 

“Sammy,” Dean says after a moment. “I’d give you a high-five, if that wasn’t the nerdiest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“High-five? Seriously?” Gabriel laughs, “What are you, trying to S some bro D at the college gym? Anyways they don’t need the affirmation, in fact I think we should throw a bucket of cold water on them just to play it safe.”

“I think we should reach a safe distance before they get to Neitzche.” Cas smiles.

“No need,” Sam says. “I’m done.” He stands and, _shit,_ wobbles, but manages to pass it off as a half-hearted stretch.

“Bed?” Dean asks.

“Bed,” Sam answers.

“Yeah, well, enjoy, I’m not having your giraffe legs kicking me in the face again. The Impala works for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Sam says, and he really should be putting up more of a fight about that, given that it _was_ supposed to be Dean’s RV after all, but he just doesn’t have the energy. Well, that - and Luke’s stare is practically burning and he does not want to talk anymore. He’s not sure if the churning feeling under his chest is booze, disgust, or worse, sheer stupid excitement, but his stomach has gone knotted for some reason and he really just wants to climb into the dark closeness of bed as soon as he can. 

He gives a half hearted wave and hears the distancing goodbyes as he trudges off towards the shadowy shape of the RV. 

He lets his eyes slip shut and takes a deep breath as he walks across the dry grass towards the waiting bed, the city and the heat flooding in around him. All around, not a terrible day. He’ll go to sleep…. eventually, and then they’ll be moving on to a new city and a new show.

He reaches out and catches the metal of the door handle.

“Sam,”

“Fuck!” He actually jumps, spinning way too quickly. “What the hell!?”

Luke rolls his eyes like Sam’s being the epitome of overdramatic.

“Did you… follow me?” Sam glares, instinctively stepping back towards the door again.

“Oh yes. It was _very_ challenging,” Luke says dryly, “I wanted to tell you something.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, “I don’t want to hear it.”

He pulls the door open. 

Luke shoves it back closed.

Sam stares at the hand suddenly in front of him and then follows it up the arm attached to a face suddenly a good deal closer.

Sam swallows. “… Can I go inside?”

“No.”

“…Why?”

“I’m telling you something.” Luke repeats, eyes heavy and calm.

Sam waits, since apparently he’s not getting a choice in the matter and shoving Luke away means body contract he is _definitely_ not in the right frame of mind for.

“You see me,” Luke says suddenly, voice low, “During the shows, on stage, when I play. You see me.”

Sam snorts. “Sorry, I guess maybe I misunderstood the definition of ‘show’.”

“No,” Luke cuts in. He presses his hand against the door harder. “Everyone else, they watch. Your brother watches. The crowd watches. Even Gabriel and Cas watch in their way. Not you. You see me in a way they don’t. You _understand_.”

Sam wants to say something. He wants to tell him to step back and fuck off and leave this riddler bullshit for someone who cares. But he can’t. And he’s not sure if it’s because he knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about or because his tongue is suddenly _way_ too heavy in his mouth.

“I see you out there, and I know,” Luke continues. “I can tell… you _hear_ it. Really hear it.”

Sam swallows and opens his mouth to try and get something out with a stammer.

“Shut up, Sam.” Luke says gently.

Sam stares. His mouth shuts without his permission.

“And so, we come to what I wanted to tell you.” Luke says. “And that’s, stop.” 

The blue eyes are glazed from booze and exhaustion and likely something else Sam doesn’t want to name, but even through all that they’re so damn sharp it aches. 

“Because if you don’t stop…” Luke whispers, “Well, I might just do something _very_ stupid.”

He’s closer. When did he get closer? The air around them is heavy and the smell of the city is mixing up with the smell of him. Sam thinks his eyes might be closed. He thinks there might be a thumb against his jaw.

“Good night, Sam.”

And then it’s gone.

Sam’s eyes slip open. 

He’s alone.

Sam let’s out a broken sigh and falls back agains the metal of the door. 

His head leans back until he can see the sky. After a moment, maybe two, he stands up again. He opens the door, stumbles to bed, and thanks heaven or whoever the hell else is more likely to be listening that Dean’s being the better man here, because he is never going to get to sleep now without taking some serious actions.

 

Dean tries to smile in a way that’s cool and reassuring but he’s 90% sure it just comes off dopey as hell. “Cas, I said I was fine, seriously.”

“I just want to be sure.” Cas’ drunk enough to be a little stumbly but it hardly shows otherwise. “You really shouldn’t be forced into this situation.”

“Hardly forced,” Dean laughs, “I spent half my childhood in this car, remember? Another night’s not going to make a difference.” 

They’re almost there already. Dean can see the hood of the Impala gleaming orange against the darkness and the city surrounding them where it’s been left next to Sam’s Japanese guilt trip and the RV shrouded in the darkness. The lights are off inside so Sam must have crashed by now. Dean realizes he doesn’t even know what time it is. He doesn’t really want to. Hell, he hardly cares.

“Well,” Dean says, reaching the car with a solid hand on the hood. “There we go.”

Cas frowns at it uncertainly.

“What?” Dean says, “Don’t like it?”

Cas’ eyes go wide and surprised in the dull light. “No, no! I didn’t… it’s beautiful.”

_Damn right._

“I just want to be sure you’ll be comfortable. It can’t be all that accommodating.” Cas frowns again, leaning to look in a window.

“Well, here,” Dean says, taking the handle of the passenger door and pulling it open, “Give it a go.”

Cas stares at the open door with an expression similar to a kid who’s been told to take whatever he wants from the candy store and is half afraid it’s all lies. “I have been curious.” He admits. “You speak very highly of this vehicle. I just... I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Dean’s hand seems to reach out all on it’s own, landing firmly on Cas’ shoulder and giving him a little push. “Just get in already, alright?”

His shoulder’s warm under the thin weight of his suit shirt and less bony than Dean expected it to be, but Cas gives in and he lets go, moving around to the other side while Cas settles in and shuts the door behind him.

Dean slides in behind the steering wheel, letting out a sigh as he leans back into the seat. 

“So?” He asks, lolling his head to one side to see him.

It’s dark inside, and from where he’s sitting Cas’ face is little more than a crisp orange outline of light around his profile, all around the sharp point of his nose, the ruffles of his hair, the low set concern of his brow.

“It’s not uncomfortable,” Cas concedes. Dean’s pretty sure he’s smiling. He’s probably more disappointed than he should be that he can’t see that properly.

And suddenly it’s just them and the comfortable close quiet of the car. Dean’s window is down, so the car isn’t stifling and the gentle distant sounds of the city float along through the park. He thinks he hears Cas sigh and feels him settle a little deeper into his seat.

“Did you have a good day?” Cas’ voice is deeper than usual when he’s drunk, but softer, too, in such close proximity.

Dean swallows and leans his head back, shifting his vision towards the ceiling. “Good day. Awesome day. Nine out of ten.”

“Nine out of ten?” Cas asks.

“Yeah well, nothing’s prefect.” Dean shrugs.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Cas says, half to himself.

“Trust me.” Dean grins. “Nine out of ten really tops my previous charts.”

“It was a good show,” Cas acknowledges. He leans his head back to match Dean’s, settling into the warm leather of the bench seat and oozing a quiet contentment that Dean’s starting to think might just be exclusively _Cas._

“Damn good,” Dean agrees. “I swear, you guys top it every night. And I’m not just saying that. It’s really crazy.”

“Luke’s showing off,” Cas murmurs. 

Dean laughs, “Yeah, he seems like the type.”

“I might be showing off too.”

Dean rolls his head to look at him with wide eyes but Cas’ eyes are shut, head back. Dean looks away and starts his inner mantra of “ _don’t be a fucking idiot, don’t be a fucking idiot”_. And he won’t be. He won’t fuck this up. No matter how much he wants to fuck it up. _Really_ fuck it up.

It would be easy. So damn easy. He could just slip his hand over, knit it slowly around his tie or just in the hair behind his head and ease him over to one side.

But god, maybe it wouldn’t be easy, because just that thought has his stomach trying to escape through his mouth. And _shit_ when did he start getting this damn antsy about things that had always been second nature to him?

It’s not like he’d never thought about it. About him. He’d thought about him. A lot. 

Too damn much.

And that wasn’t so abnormal, heck, it was natural. Cas is a damn good looking dude, it would be weird not to have him popping into dreams, slipping through his mind all tussled and undone and gasping against his name.

What was maybe a bit abnormal were the waking dreams he’d never let himself think about. Those moments when he’s too tired or too drunk to keep a proper handle on things, and suddenly he’s waking up next to him and watching him just breathe through dreams, or sliding past him in the kitchen to get to the coffee, catching a hand on his hip as he goes, watching him practice, sitting in their window-seat with golden morning light bouncing off the strings. Sometimes it’s even just stupid shit, like arguing over which movie to watch or being told to put glasses top down in the cabinets, or warnings to not mix up their laundry colors with whites.

 _Those_ are the thoughts that scare him shitless when he’s conscious enough to remember having them at all and leave a gaping emptiness when he makes himself forget about them again. But that glowing feeling they bring with them has been sneaking up on him with brutal stealth, and right now he’s practically shining out of his fucking pores. 

So what if Sam jammed his way into this summer? Who cares if yesterday was crazy, and today was hot, and he had a night in tight leather seats in front of him? He’s in his car with a guy who he’s been thinking about for years, a guy sinking sleepily into the seats of _his_ car and letting out soft breaths into the quiet space between them. 

And, it probably matters that Dean actually can’t remember the last time he felt this happy.

“What are you thinking about?” A voice almost purrs.

Dean glances over. Cas’ eyes are still closed.

“Nothing,” Dean lies. “So, Atlanta tomorrow?”

“Atlanta tomorrow.”

“First time?”

“In a while,” Cas sighs, brow furrowing. “I think… four years since. First album we were there.”

“Good town?”

“You haven’t been?”

“Not for long,” Dean says, “Anyways, motels don’t really count as part of any town they’re in, and that’s pretty much all I saw.”

“How old were you?” Cas asks.

Dean turns, looking out the window on his side where the city lights catch against the dark of the sky. “Umm… seven, maybe?”

“So Sam was… four?”

Dean can’t help glancing over, but Cas still has his eyes closed, head leant back. “Yeah, yeah that’s right.”

“Your father was looking for work?”

“As usual,” Dean says, “Work. Pay. Booze. Rinse. Repeat. The routine.”

“What did you do?” Cas asks.

“Nothing,” Dean snaps reflexively, “What do you mean?”

Cas laughs slightly, “No, I mean with Sam. Waiting, all day alone in a motel room with a four year old.”

“Oh,” Dean lets his vision drift out of focus against the windshield. “Um, the usual stuff I guess. I told him stories. We had a couple of ratty old picture books he always carried around. Watched TV. Ate vending machine snacks. I think I might have been trying to get him reading by then.”

“That’s early.” Cas observes.

Dean finds himself smiling. “Not for Sammy. Kid’s a genius, I swear. He picked it up damn quick too, was getting through the books on his own before he was six.”

“You must have been a very good teacher.”

Dean looks over. Cas’ eyes are open, watching him hazily.

Suddenly he feels his stomach tightening up so he glances away with a shrug. “Yeah, well, like I said. He’s smart. Makes up for me.”

“I’m glad I got the chance to meet him.” Cas says. “Surprising though it was.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Dean laughs. He leans a little deeper into the seat, inching his knees out closer to the dash as he sinks in. The leather’s hot and soft and it’s just cool enough that it doesn’t stick damp to his skin.

“No,” Cas shakes off. “It’s not your fault. I was worried. At first. Distracted by the idea that you might not be able to make it after all.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. Mostly because it’s a bit too stupid to imagine anyone being disappointed by the idea of _not_ having him around. But he’s not going to call him out on it. Not when he’s this damn contented. He’ll figure it out eventually, realize Dean’s not exactly worth that kind of concern, but he doesn’t have to tonight.

“Now you’re here though, and he’s here. It’s good. I’m glad. I wanted to meet him.” Cas smiles. “I suppose I just wanted to meet you more.”

The light’s still catching along the edges of Cas’ face. Dean can see one of his hands resting on the seat between them. The fingers are bent slightly, pressing just with their own weight into the ease of the leather. Dean’s suddenly wondering where the callouses are on those fingers. He knows the ones on his own hands well enough, but he’s always at the guitar, maybe bassists have different rough spots. Maybe on the very ends of fingers, or the side of his thumb, hidden spots roughed down, and calloused over into something smoother than skin.

“Dean,”

Cas’ voice is softer, hardly there at all. His eyes are shut again. He must be more tired than he realized.

Dean wants to answer. His throat doesn’t seem to want to get there so he just sort of hums, but Cas seems to get the idea.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Mm, what for?”

Dean’s head must have gotten a few pounds heavier in the past ten minutes, because he realizes he doesn’t even have it under his control anymore. He’s leant against the seat, almost collapsed now with his back half against the door to support himself. Things are a little foggier. It’s harder than it should be to even keep his eyes open.

“For writing that email.” Cas says softly, “All those years ago.”

Dean snorts. The fucking email. The amount of sheer ground breaking stupid he felt after sending that thing… Cas was a musician, a success, someone _worth_ something. The last thing he needed was some pathetic dude writing him a thing like that...

But Sam was gone. Dad was gone. Mom was gone. He was alone. And drunk. And he didn’t know what to do. No one needed him any more. And if no one needed him any more well… why was he still there? What was he worth anymore?

Nothing. He was just a weight, and reminder of things Sammy never wanted to hold him back.

He could never hold him back.

He swallows.

“I don’t know why I did that.” Dean hears himself say. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Cas says. Dean’s almost sure he’s asleep, but Cas’ voice is so sure. “Thank you. For not… for talking to me. For talking to someone. I consider myself very fortunate that I’m the one you reached out to. I’m grateful for it almost every day.”

Dean knows he must be asleep now. But it’s a pretty good dream.

“Today especially.”

It’s quiet for a long time.

Outside the shining black metal there’s the gentle sounds of the city, the weight of sweetness and heat. Inside there’s just the silence of steady breath and the smells he’s known for so long.

Somewhere far off, a body leans in against his. It fits so right, like things always do in dreams, frame eased into the curve of his chest, a face resting in the valley of his shoulder, and suddenly his dreams are full of sunlit apartments and a deep voice close and warm.

Dean can feel hair against his cheek, smelling a little like patchouli, warm stone, and just a bit salty with sweat. Without thinking Dean’s letting his nose edge the hair out of the way, and his lips press into the hairline underneath it for just a moment. Maybe two.

There’s a gentle noise he feels more than hears against his side, a slight shift that slides impossibly more perfectly into the shape of his shoulder. And then there’s nothing, but the quiet, the heat, and dreams.

 

Sam’s already convinced. Georgia blows. 

And okay, maybe it’s not all that different from Louisiana. It’s got the same old buildings that reek of something pre-Reconstruction, and all the trees are covered in the same hanging moss that makes them look like molting sloths. And yes, it’s the same humid heat that oozes under your skin and makes you want to juice the air until it’s something tolerable again. And okay, _maybe_ , just _maybe_ he’s a little more irritated today than he was yesterday for _some_ reason. But it’s not his fault. It’s Georgia’s. Stupid Georgia. And Dean’s not making it any easier.

Sam ended up shaking him within an inch of his life to wake him up out of the Impala that morning, after Cas woke Sam up knocking on the RV door and told him they should be hitting the road. And once Sam had finally gotten Dean back into the world of consciousness he just stared around the front seat like there was something missing and Sam had to tell him about five times they were on their way out before he got the message.

Then it had been a good seven hour voyage before they finally got into Atlanta, a journey that had been about as much fun as driving for through Alabama in 98 degrees with no air conditioning could possibly be. Just 98 degrees, seven hours, and too many thoughts trying to assault his brain in _way_ too many creative and terrible ways. 

He’d had to resort to the radio but every station was some country horror show and when he finally found what was apparently the only other channel he only got through five songs of blissful distraction before the same voice that was shattering around his head abruptly came pouring out of the speakers and he turned the stereo off so quickly the knob spun off and rolled under his seat and he was too damn irritated to look for it. 

But they got there. Finally. 

The place they were setting up was actually in some theater and it was a relief to be out of the festival setting for once. Well… would have been, if prepping a theater they got all to themselves hadn’t meant that he and Dean had to “set the stage”, which consisted of stringing up the giant painted wings and other decorations, which Sam might have admitted looked awesome if he didn’t have to be the one carrying them up and down clumsy old staircases.

It really was a great theater. There were three levels - the ground and two balconies - but even so, it felt closer, more intimate by far than the field stages of the other shows. It wasn’t big and the balconies wrapped all the way around, Opera-style, with a high ceiling that rounded and bulged and Sam found himself wondering just how different the sound would be inside a space so well designed to hold it, but he stopped himself fast.

He wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about anything. And not thinking about anything actually ended up being a hell of a lot more challenging than he’d hoped it might be.

Each time he heard Luke wandering around the theater to take a look or check on them he found himself making some half assed excuse and scurrying away as quickly as possible. But he couldn’t help it. He _really_ couldn’t deal with him right now. Well, that wasn’t exactly right. He’d been trying to deal with him, or rather _the thought_ of him far too late last night, way too early this morning, and all the way up until the pressing and uncomfortable present.

But he was lurking around every corner nonetheless, hiding in the shadows of each thought, smelling of smoke and bourbon and something almost electric.

_“I might just do something very stupid.”_

What did that even mean, anyways?

Sam shakes himself, because, no, he already decided: _he’s not thinking about it._ And if he keeps hiding like a very mature and responsible adult he’s never going to have to, right?

Dean’s no help whatsoever.

Sam’s tried just about everything to distract himself with some kind of conversation, from trying to get reminiscent about that time Bobby accidentally ordered Tofurkey and ended up shooting something off the neighbor’s farm and making Sam and Dean jump the fence to get it, all the way through asking him what he’s been up to with the Impala in the past year or so and what exactly went wrong with it, but nothing takes. 

He gets a few short answers, a couple laughs, handful of smiles, and then Dean’s back to staring at things for too long in thoughtful silence and generally being detached from this universe. Sam’s almost tempted to ask him what’s up the the preoccupation but he knows how far that will get him, and silent broody Dean is better than pissed “how dare you assume I’m lame enough to have feelings” Dean so he doesn’t press his luck and focuses on the work instead.

Luckily, he only has to hide in the bathroom once more before everything’s ready to go, and Dean’s contented enough with the work to pull out of his mind-mire, give Sam a good firm slap on the back, and step back to check out their work before it’s time to clear out for the show.

By the time nine rolls around the floor is packed. There’s air conditioning in the theater, but with that many people squeezed into the balconies and jammed across the floor it doesn’t make much of a difference. 

That excitement that apparently is always going to be there before shows is crawling around in Sam’s stomach and making him bounce in place, wiggling the beer around in his hand, watching the stage anxiously. 

They’re actually on the floor tonight, over behind one of the built in railings so the crowd is almost pressed right against them, writhing and pushing with eager grins and hardly contained excitement. Sam tries to distract himself in it, watching the college girls holding their plastic cups full of amber high over their heads as they try to make it to the front, the couples leaning into each other, smiling and talking close and secret, those guys standing still as rocks, daring anyone to try and shove them out of the way.

Sam wonders what it’s like backstage. Cas is probably wearing that white shirt and tie again with the sleeves rolled up so he can play. Gabriel might be wearing lederhosen for all he knows. Luke’s sure to have that small amount of eyeliner smudged in the corners of his eyes, all that dark making the pallor of the blue only clearer. 

“What’s up?” Dean suddenly calls next to him.

Sam glances over. “What?”

“You.” Dean’s eyebrows get that much closer to the rest of his face. “You’ve been squirrelly all day.”

“Bullshit.” Sam shrugs him off.

“Seriously,” Dean presses. “Did you not get enough sleep or something?”

It’s a little hard to sleep when all you can think about is shutting up mouthy guitarists with various parts of your anatomy.

“It was hot,” Sam tries. “I can’t sleep when it’s this hot. Anyways, you're the one who’s weird today.”

“Am not,” Dean insists, turning away to gulp down beer in the same instant.

“You’ve hardly said anything in the past four hours,” Sam counters, “Not that I’m complaining.”

Dean manages to punch his arm soundly before Sam gets a chance to dodge away.

“Seriously man, you’ve been skulking around like you owe someone money,” Dean continues.

“No way.” It’s weak and he knows it but, god, apparently that’s the best he’s doing. 

“It’s Luke, isn’t it?” Dean frowns. “Is he really bugging you? Because rockstar or not, Sammy, just say the word and I’ll smack his ass into Sunday.”

 _Phrasing._ Fuck.

“No!” Sam insists with a wince. “Christ, Dean, it’s nothing, alright? And even if that was it, I’m more than capable of dealing.”

“Sure as hell doesn’t seem like it,” Dean mutters into his beer.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Dean snaps.

And Sam’s on the verge of throwing something right back about Dean being too damn busy making doe eyes at bassists to do much of anything for anyone, when suddenly the crowd explodes into noise and the lights flood the stage and before either of them knows what’s happening they're both cheering and clapping along with the rest.

Sam was right. Cas looks the same as always. Gabriel’s thankfully passed on traditional Bavarian get-ups in favor of something loose, sleeveless, and neon with a headband to match. Luke’s wearing dark jeans and white shirt. Totally normal. Totally standard. Not at all something that should be making Sam down the rest of his beer in one thick gulp and try not to imagine shoving him into a swimming pool to to see what color it would turn against his skin.

They kick off the first song with a bang, lights flooding up all the intricate painted wooden hangings he and Dean spent the afternoon stringing up. The whole thing frames just right in the theater, with the siding of the operatic stage and the high curved edges of the curtain overhead. 

The performance is something totally new here. Outside it’s great, the sounds shooting up into the sky and flowing out into everything that happens to be in its path. But here, it’s something different, something closer and tighter and somehow it feels more personal. It’s as if it’s really _for_ the audience, not just whoever happens to be listening, like the theater around the sound packages up the performance into a wonderful explosive little gift that it’s easing into the clamoring hands of each person pressing tight within the walls.

It’s loud and intimate and the size of the sound, the display of the show, is cramming against the edges of its container, spilling out thick and heavy over the crow surrounding it and bursting from the seams.

Sam knows almost all the songs now, and he can feel his own lips ghosting over the words right along with Luke’s as they play, as his heel bangs against the floor right in time with each one.

They go through one, two, four, six, and the pressure just build. The crowd surges, the sound grows, Cas’ face becomes a mask of focus, Gabriel’s hands fly back and forth, and Luke’s voice shoves all of it, further and further as he plays with just as much fury, tying all of them together into a sharp tight unit.

They go through two more, then three, and then Sam knows there’s none left.

The crowd is still going crazy as Luke calls out “thank you!” runs his forearm over his head and grins up into the lights. He turns to start the voyage off stage and then, suddenly, he stops. 

He steps back and turns, tossing his head in Cas’ direction and yelling something at him - but it’s too loud with the continued cheering to hear much of anything.

“Wait - what’s up?” Sam yells in Dean’s direction.

“Hell if I know,” Dean answers, eyes fixed on the stage with a small frown.

Luke’s still yelling something at Cas and then Gabriel is shaking his head but Cas’ eyes are locked on Luke and suddenly he’s sliding his bass to one side and Luke’s grinning, walking back towards the front and easing his guitar off his shoulder as the crowd screams their support.

Luke leans down and snatches up a fiddle.

The crowd explodes, cheers bouncing against Sam’s ears so loud he can’t hear his own, and then Cas is sliding in his own graceful modest way up to the front next to him with a violin in his own hand.

Gabriel’s looking up at the lights like he is waiting on God for some kind of explanation but by then Cas and Luke are side by side, bows at the ready.

Luke gives Cas one slow smile, and to Sam’s shock Cas actually returns it, and then they start to play.

They start out slow, working a tune back and forth, letting one pick up support and then pass it back to the other. It’s celtic in some places and bluesy and southern in others like Sam expected, but what he doesn’t expect is the way something almost Arabian sneaks in at the corners, pushing it into almost a Hebrew feel that swirls around itself, urging up and down with a beat and soul he hadn’t expected. 

Gabriel gives them a bit of room and then joins in, filling out the belly of the sounds with just the right amount of backbone.

And then they start to pick up, the swirl of that sound catching up around them and pushing harder. The crow follows their hint, banging out a beat with their feet on the floor and Sam’s following along without thinking.

The two of them are closer now, close enough to practically smash their heads against the other’s - but they don’t. They’re both caught up in this same swirling presence that eases one forward and another back and their rocking into the sound of the thing forming between them, faster and harder in each passing second.

Cas’ hair is damp in the front, turning it stringy and catching a shine as his hands move impossibly faster and the sound goes dark and furious. His sleeves are pushed up so high that most of his thin bicep is shoving out of the white bunched fabric as he pulls the bow. His face is a mask of focus, brow furrowed deep and furious on the strings under his fingers. 

Luke’s no better off. His eyes are locked, and so sharp on the strings Sam’s almost surprised they don’t snap. His booted foot’s pulsing against the floor with that steady beat, hips moving along with hardly enough to notice through his concentration. He’s sweating as well, maybe even more than Cas and it’s easy enough to see where the white of his shirt is starting to cling to his chest.

Gabriel picks up the beat again and suddenly things get impossible.

The song drives forward with impossible fury and the crowd isn’t even clapping anymore, they’re not even cheering anymore, they are simply staring in dumb shock at the insanity unfolding in front of them. 

Cas is biting his lip so hard Sam thinks he might break the skin and Luke’s hand is moving so fast that Sam can hardly seen it any more. 

The crowd goes still against its own awe, and then Gabriel falls off, and it’s just them, inches away from the other reaching, higher, further, stronger, faster.

And then, with impossible understanding the melodies snap together. 

One note. Two. Three.

Silence.

The crowd holds, staring in shock. And then, all at once, the sound of cheers shatter back in like an avalanche.

Luke and Cas are breathing hard, smiling at each other with warm grins still half stunned in exhaustion, waving goodnight and thanks at the crowd.

“Shit.” Dean’s voice is dry and so quiet Sam almost misses it because suddenly he’s walking very quickly away from Dean, the crowd, everything.

They’re still cheering behind him, crying out for more, but he can’t hear that. He can’t hear much of anything besides his own blood beating up inside his ears. 

He grips the railing on the stairs leading backstage and he’s taking them two at a time and then he’s in the dull darkness with the wires taped down under his feet which are suddenly moving him forward even faster. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the stage empty off the the left, lights now dimming down in the band’s absence and he follows their lead.

He stops, just off to one side, hidden in the darkness. He’s waiting. Maybe for nothing. Maybe for something. He can’t be sure anymore, all he knows is that he can feel his breath tight and hot in his chest with something almost like panic. And god, what the hell is he doing? He need to move. He needs to leave. Now. 

And then all at once, someone turns around the corner stopping dead in front of him hardly inches away. 

It’s him.

Luke’s chest is still moving against the weight of his exhausted breaths, and Sam can feel the heat of them this close in the dark, behind the curtains. His mouth is open, lips just parted and hair shoved out of the way where he pushed it back with sweat, but Sam hardly sees any of that because Luke’s staring. Stunned. Breathless. And suddenly, standing there, he looks almost terrified.

Well… that is, until Sam snatches the back of his neck and shoves his mouth onto his so hard he forgets how to breathe.

Luke huffs out his open shock against his lips but Sam’s eyes are already screwing shut as his mouth urges the one under it open and suddenly Luke’s nothing but fire.

He has two hands in Sam’s hair white-knuckle tight, slamming his tongue heavy and desperate into his mouth and Sam almost pulls back in shock, but it’s too hot and too good to stop, _ever_ , and suddenly Sam’s hands are snatching under his ass and fucking lifting him right off the floor.

“HEY! SAMMY?!”

Sam releases him instantly.

But Dean’s not there. Not yet, and Luke growls against Sam’s mouth in irritation and nips at his lip, dragging his mouth messily open once again, all gasps and panicked hunger, and Sam can’t help shoving back, wet and rough against the stubble and the teeth and—

“SAMMY? YOU HERE?”

Sam snatches Luke’s shoulders and shoves him back hard, breaking away with a wet soft sound and suddenly it’s just their quick rough breathing between them.

“Don’t you fucking dare—“ Luke hisses through his teeth, snatching out for him again.

Sam stops him, grabbing his wrist hard out of the air.

“Hey- there you are... What the fuck?”

Sam turns. Dean’s leaning around the corner. He’s staring at Sam’s hand tight enough to bruise on Luke’s wrist with instant concern.

“Sammy? You okay?”

Sam shoves Luke’s wrist away and turns his back in the same motion, walking fast towards Dean, “It’s nothing. Come on.”

Dean gives Luke one last glare and turns back the way he came. Sam follows, running the back of one hand over his messy mouth, adjusting his erection into a less conspicuous arrangement with the other, and definitely, _definitely_ not looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara continues to be the best beta ever. Today's end notes feature her description of the brother plague that you might have missed from exodus:
> 
> "Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will plague your whole country with self-obsessed older brothers with no sense of decency or tact. The Mississippi will teem with irritating blood relatives. They will come up into your RV and your stage and onto your lawn chairs, and into your Impala and inadequate mini-fridge. The wretched siblings will go up on you and your 'friend-from-the-internet' and all your alcohol."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s just got to hope that doesn’t make it as transparent as the excuse obviously is. After all, “fine” in Winchester pretty much translates into “my universe is crumbling and I will hit you if you try to stop it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I'm so sorry this took so long guys, but the story is done, so quick updates from now on.

Sam’s staring at the ceiling. He’s been staring at it for a while now. But that’s alright. It’s a good ceiling. 

It’s white. It’s plastic. It’s exactly the same as it was the night before. And the night before that. Looking at it he can pretend that everything else is exactly the same too. 

It’s simple. Simple is good.

Simple is knowing exactly what he wants. Simple is not rolling something he definitely _did not_ mean to do over and over in his skull until it feels like he’s beaten his brain with a meat cleaver. Simple is pretty much the opposite of thinking about how awesome stubble feels under a wet bottom lip and how weirdly hot it is to be lifting up somebody you know is likely as strong as you right up around your waist, and not being sure if it’s their belt or something else jamming against the side of your hip.

Straight is simple. Straight doesn’t come with endless questions he’s pretty sure he needs a whole new kind of sex education program to deal with.

It’s always been simple. It can still be simple. All he has to do is keep staring at the ceiling. That’s not that hard. All he has to do is keep it up. He can do that. Can’t he? He can lie here, and stare at the ceiling, and pretend that absolutely everything is totally fine.

There’s a knock against the door.

Sam ignores it. The ceiling. The ceiling is what’s really important right now.

It knocks again.

Sam lets his eyes slip shut and breathes out once heavily though his nose. 

The knocking gets firmer.

Well… the ceiling will still be there.

With a groan Sam rolls to one side and let’s himself tumble out of bed. “Alright, alright. I’m coming!”

He pulls on his jeans from where he’d chucked them hours ago after staggering into the RV right after tear down. He finds his shirt caught around the bathroom door where he apparently banished it with equal enthusiasm. He’s not even sure exactly how he got back here last night come to think of it. 

He remembers being pissed. Very pissed. He remembers slamming the door and stripping and collapsing into bed where he lasted about five minutes before jacking himself off into desperate unconsciousness. 

And then there was waking up. And the return of reality and all the nasty messy edges right along with it… And shit why the hell had he gotten up at all? Why hadn’t he just flipped over shoved his face in a pillow and done exactly what he’d done the night before until he was asleep again and didn’t have to deal with any of this.

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he steps down the two steps to the RV door, reaching out to pull it open. “Dude, seriously, I know we have to go but I might have to sleep in—“

_Fuck._

Luke looks like shit. His hair’s all over the place, there’s dark circles under his eyes, and Sam thinks he’s wearing the same shirt as last night. And the way he’s _glaring_ really doesn’t help.

Sam opens his mouth. He needs to say something. Something smart and definitive that get this all sorted out before it becomes an even bigger mess.

“Your hair looks stupid.” Sam says.

The glare intensifies.

“Yours looks stupider.” Luke growls.

Okay… so that wasn’t totally effective. He’ll just have to try again. He swallows.

“I don’t like you.” Sam says firmly. And not _at all_ like a six year old girl. “Go away.”

He swings the door to close it. Luke catches it, and his look goes from pissed to dangerous.

“I don’t care.” His voice sounds like shit too. Did he even sleep at all?

Luke keeps his hand firmly on the door so Sam can’t shut it and steps closer. Sam steps back instantly. His heart is starting to do that annoying thudding thing that makes it hard to focus on things like stairs and railings and way too easy to replace them with lips and hands and _shit_.

There are little purple circles along Luke’s wrist on the hand holding the door open. Sam thinks that might be his fault.

“Should we talk?” Luke says, voice lower this close.

“No.” Sam says, in his best serious grown-up voice.

Luke’s stare darkens, “Should we _not_ talk?”

Sam swallows and tries to ignore the pretty un-ignorable things that question is doing to him. He shifts his hips a bit to the side and crosses his arms firmly.

“It’s- I… I messed up.” Sam staggers.

Luke’s eyes actually start to smile. “Is that right?”

Sam tries out his own glare. “Yes. I just messed up- that’s all. That happens.”

Luke nods slowly with mock understanding in a way that’s viciously annoying and makes Sam want to shove him. 

Hard.

_No._ Sam shakes himself firmly. No touching. No _thinking_ about touching. He’s fucked this up enough already.

“Look, I’d really _really_ just be happy if we can just pretend this- that- _never_ happened and move on. Okay?” Sam stammers, crossing his arms even tighter across his chest.

Luke leans a little heavier against the door, eyes tightening on Sam’s face in curiosity and Sam can’t help shifting his gaze away from him because _christ_ he can’t deal with this. Not yet. He needs time. Time to forget just how damn good it felt to snatch at the back of his neck and how he tasted like sweat and bourbon and something else Sam thinks might have been a little that taste you get licking steel pipes in winter right before your tongue catches.

But he was still _watching_ , leaning against the doorframe like he could push his way inside exactly whenever he wanted and the worst part is he probably could. But he didn’t. He just stood there. Just _watching._

And then, suddenly, he isn’t.

“Alright.” Luke says casually, leaning away from the entrance.

Sam looks up in shock, but Luke’s already stepping back. His shoulders are loose and calm and he smiles at Sam suddenly like he’s anyone else. “It’s forgotten.”

Sam stares. After a moment he swallows and nods.

Luke turns, waving over his shoulder as he goes. “You’d better wake up your brother. We don’t want to be late for New York. Long drive today.”

Sam doesn’t move. He stays where he’s left, arms crossed tight across his chest, heartbeat quick, watching as Luke swaggers out of sight back towards their bus as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Right… Good.”

 

It’s a long ass drive, but hell, he’s had worse. All in all it really isn’t all that terrible, and since they left at, what? Six? They actually made pretty good time getting to the theater by seven that evening, and even had an hour or so to crash before they had to start set-up for their curtain at ten.

Dean can’t remember the last time he was that fucking grateful for a thirteen hour drive.

Last night… well, ‘hazy’ isn’t totally the right word. Obscured in a giant cloud of _fuck me_ is probably a better way to put it.

There’s some vague memory of Sam looking like he was about to smack Luke in the jaw hard enough to take his head off, and then being all bitchy for the rest of the night, and he probably should have said something, or taken the time to actually know what the hell was wrong or what the fuck was going on, but he just… couldn’t.

Not after... _that._

He honestly can’t remember the last time he was just that fucking turned on. He thinks the only thing that might have come close was when he was twelve and ended up catching Basic Instinct on late night TV in some crappy motel in Arkansas. And even then…

God.

He was so fucked.

Why the hell did he put himself in this damn position? He had to have known what would happen? Did he really think that he could handle this? Had he even thought about it? No. He’d fucking taken the door that was open like the idiot that he is and jumped through it head first without worrying about what the hell he was smashing into on the other side. 

Maybe he hadn’t realized… at least not really. He had to have known all these years, somehow, just exactly how he felt about Cas. There’s no way with the dreams and the rest of it he couldn’t have. But, well, maybe the _extent_ was where he’d fallen short. And really this wasn’t totally his fault. Fucking Nostradamus couldn’t have predicted just how damn hot someone like Cas can look in a fiddle-off with rucked up sleeves and furious concentration and, _god_ , everything.

Humans are really stupid ass things when it comes right down to it. How can he go from dreaming about something as painfully lame as _kissing his forehead_ one minute, to wanting to do things to that dampened exhausted body that were even making him blush?

But he’s moving on. He’s wanked until he felt like he couldn’t rock an erection for another fifteen years and drove for thirteen hours after, and he’s decided that he’s good. He’s fine. Cas has always been hot. That’s a given. Nothing’s really that different. He doesn’t have to mess this up by being the dumb ass that he is. He can keep it under control. Because what really matters here is Cas, and what they have, and never loosing that, or at least keeping his hands on it for as long as he can before he slips and it flies out and shatters on the ground. But damn, he’s done alright so far, he can try his best to keep it up for a few more weeks.

As long as Cas keeps his damn hands off that violin… And doesn’t push his sleeves up too high… And generally keeps his hair within the confines of decency…

It’s raining in New York by the time they get to the theater and after the dead heat of the south it’s a miracle. Dean finds himself running to get the outside part of the lifting done before Sammy, loving the blissful distraction of the cool drizzle on his skin. 

“What’s left?” Sam calls in his direction as he drops an amp down on the stage, kneeling down to hookup the necessary bits and pieces. 

Dean can’t help snorting.

“What?” Sam asks, looking over his shoulder.

“Dude… did you tie your hair up?”

Sam turns back with a pout. “Shut up. It was in my face.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Dean laughs.

“What’s the big deal?”

“If it’s in your face you cut it off, you don’t get all soccer mom. Just give me five minutes with a razor I swear--” 

“Fuck off.” Sam sighs as he fiddles with the cables.

“Now,” Dean presses, starting to tune the bass. “Do you keep hair ties on your wrist like all the girls, ooor—?”

“I seriously will drop one of these and tell Cas you did it.”

Dean shuts up. 

“So,” Sam says, “What’s left?”

“Well,” Dean sighs, running an arm over his forehead, pushing the rain out of the way and his hair back along with it. “Let’s see.” He leans back, closing his eyes and getting the mental list all sorted. “We got the speakers, hooked up?”

“Check.” Sam says, continuing to fiddle with the amp.

“And the amps?”

“Last one.”

“Drums?”

“Yup.”

“Bass? Cleo?”

“There, annnnd there.” Sam says, turning to lay eyes on them as he confirms.

“Then, guitars, and we’re good.” Dean nods, heading back the way he came. “I got ‘em.”

“No need.” A voice sounds.

Dean starts, looking up quickly to see Luke holding out the black electric in one hand and keeping the acoustic in the other.

The guy looks a bit like he’s been replacing sleep with 80 proof for about a week, and that grey v-neck is probably about four inches deeper than it strictly needs to be, but hell, he’s not going to judge. 

“Uh, thanks?” Dean manages, taking the guitars from him and moving them where they should go. “Did you need something?”

“Do I need to need something?” Luke teases idly.

“No,” Dean huffs, turning to make sure they’re ready to get plugged in when the time comes. “Guess not. But if you two are going to get into that nerdy shit again just give me some warning so I can find cover, alright?”

“I don’t think that should be a…” Luke suddenly trails.

Dean turns.

He’s staring at Sam with his head on a bit of a tilt. Sam’s staring back looking equal parts panic and confusion.

“…What?” Sam asks.

Luke narrows his eyes. “Hair.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean laughs, “He’s a freakin’ field hockey captain.”

Luke’s still squinting. “Minus the skirt.”

Dean snorts.

Sam’s apparently decided to ignore them both, focusing on the amp set up as if it’s open heart surgery.

“Can’t you make up some employee regulations or something, he looks stupid as hell--”

“It’s fine.” Luke interrupts.

Dean turns to glance and him but can’t help noticing the way Sam instantly turns red where he’s crouched, reaches back, and tugs the tie out of his hair. It falls back down around his face.

“You can both fuck off now, alright?” Sam grumbles.

Dean shrugs in Luke’s direction and he returns it with a roll of the eyes before wandering backstage again.

Dean manages to focus on getting the mics sorted out for a full five minutes before letting it slip.

“So, are you guys okay?”

Sam turns instantly, “What? Who? What?”

Dean frowns. “You and Lord of the Assholes. Are you okay?”

Sam stands up, checking the wiring across the stage. “I don’t totally know what that means.”

“Last night, I know I was a bit spaced out, but even I didn’t miss the fact that you looked like you wanted to tear his face off backstage.”

Sam’s going red again and _god_ he really is a total girl. “He’s a jackass. That’s all.”

“Yeah, but are you guys good? I mean not to sound like a totally selfish dick but I don’t think this job would hold up too well if you ended up knocking a few teeth out of the front-man.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Sam insists firmly.

“You sure?” Dean presses, “Last night— I know it’s not my business or whatever— but it looked like you were about to slam him against a wall.”

There’s a stumbling noise behind him and Dean turns to see Sam catching himself against one of the speakers.

“I’m fine.” Sam snaps, flicking his hair out of his face and glaring at the wiring under his feet like it’s responsible for poorly massaged kale. “It’s fine. Everything. Is. _Fine_.”

Dean stares. “Fine.”

 

Sam’s still feeling like a dick by the time the lights start to fill the stage in front of them to the cheers of the crowd, but Dean’s been asking for someone to turn the “fine” excuse on him for years. He’s just got to hope that doesn’t make it as transparent as the excuse obviously is. After all, “fine” in Winchester pretty much translates into “my universe is crumbling and I will hit you if you try to stop it.” And Sam’s universe is eroding. Small bits of logic snapping off and floating away with each cringing memory.

This morning had been bad enough, waking up feeling emotionally lost and impossibly clear all at once, sexually spent and erotically desperate in the same moment. It had been enough just trying to sort out what happened to him, and he’s still not totally sure.

And then it has just gotten weirder. At first Luke’s there, shoving his door open and glaring at him like he’s going to turn him into a chew-toy in a matter of minutes, and Sam’s scrambling to come up with something, anything, to stop that from happening, which actually… worked?

And that was really the strong breeze that sent the tattered leaves of the logical world swirling around in a crazy mess across his brain. 

It had been thirteen hours. Thirteen hours driving and running it through his brain over and over. He’d just… left. Like it was that simple, like “forget it” actually worked and everything was fine and never had to happen again. 

Part of Sam had still insisted it was a trick but then they’d gotten here and he’d not so much as glanced at him when they were walking around the theater before they started setting up. There had been the hair thing, but even that was weirdly absent of any blatant sexual harassment, and, well, was it really that simple? He just had to tell him one last time to leave him alone and now he was going to? Apparently so.

But Luke’d never really done anything to start with, had he? Sam had kissed _him_. He _really_ had, no matter how much he might want to remember it differently. He’d been the one who had gone backstage, he’d been the one who had waited, he’d been the one who had snapped the taught drawn line between them with one short tug at a wrist.

And _why?!_ What the hell had made him do it? He can’t even remember going backstage - it was all some insane haze of fiddle music and damp brows and furious concentration and then there were shocked blue eyes and lips on his, and _what the hell had happened?_

“Dude?”

Sam shakes himself, “Huh?”

Dean’s eyeing him again. Undoubtedly questioning the psychological soundness of the “fine”. He should really know better.

Dean sighs. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Then, suddenly, there’s the sound of a drums jumping to life and the theater is full of sound. Sam turns towards the stage, watching as the lights flood, purple and green, drenching the band in color and strong shadows: Cas’ hands moving like liquid, seamless and calm, easing out the body of the sound, Gabriel with an open Yankees jersey hanging off his shoulders rolling his head along with the beat, letting his eyes slip shut. And Luke. Singing.

And just like that all the tattered bits of thought snap right back together.

It’s as clear as the difference between silence and noise. Everything had been tangled in his brain, wrapped up like a mess of yarn. And then there’s the sound, and it’s as if someone has simply grabbed a bit of that string and dragged it out, turning the messy tangle into one straight, clear line.

Sam doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to.

The music washes over him, pulsing through his veins hot and electric. Just like it always has. Just like he’s starting to realize it’s always going to.

There’s nothing but the sound of his voice, the pulse of his body, the pure _fire _of it.__

__The crowd cheers. The band plays, song after song. The sound grows, lifts, and finally, with a roar, shatters, leaving nothing but the clapping of hands, the whooping of voices, the thudding of Sam’s heart still keeping the beat._ _

__Everything’s clear. Either that or he just can’t remember what was supposed to be confusing in the first place._ _

__He’d wanted things to be simple. But they already are._ _

__Its as simple as turning away from the crowd and letting his feet carrying him towards the stage. Simple as shoving open the backstage door and climbing up the short steps to the dark behind. Simple as moving, silently, through the black of the curtains, stepping over the wires, and waiting, until he hears the voices approach, then divide, leave just the sound of one set of steps getting closer and closer._ _

__It’s as simple as snatching out, grabbing a wrist, and tugging. Hard._ _

__Everything snaps together at once, clarity shattering around him as Luke’s hand finds his hip in an instant and yanks him close, and then Sam’s closing the distance all together._ _

__Luke’s lips are already half open in a smile by the time Sam hits them, but it just makes it that much easier to shove them apart and push his tongue into the heat of his mouth, the feeling of his breath coming hard and fast between them._ _

__Luke’s got a hand in his hair, holding fast and Sam grunts against the sudden pressure, until Luke tilts his skull just that much and dives so deep Sam’s almost sure he’s trying to choke him, and the scary part is he’s not sure he would stop him, not when it feels that _deep_ and that _good_ and fuck—_ _

__He pulls back with a gasp but Luke catches his lower lip in his teeth teasing hard enough to hurt and suddenly Sam’s hands are doing things all on their own, sliding up both his sides, feeling the way his torso edges and folds, moving from hard to soft under the drag of his t-shirt and now Luke’s the one who’s breath is catching in shallow huffs against Sam’s neck._ _

__Sam can’t help letting his head loll back against the feeling, a silent curse falling out of him. He feels Luke’s mouth drag into a smile against the skin of his neck before turning and biting down. Hard._ _

__“Fuck!” Sam swears, snatching his shoulders and shoving him away._ _

__Luke hits the wall a foot or so behind them with such force it actually shudders and his face goes stunned and so slack under arousal that Sam’s instantly closing their distance again, pressing tight and kissing him roughly, once, twice, then he’s snatching Luke’s jaw and turning his head to expose the thick line of muscles on his neck so he can drag his tongue down the full length of it._ _

__Luke groans, deep and thick, and the sound of his voice vibrates across his throat, over Sam’s lips. Sam’s cock jumps so hard in his jeans that it actually aches. He’s struggling to keep whine down in his throat when, suddenly, Luke’s snatching Sam’s hips and urging them back a few inches._ _

__Sam pulls his head up in surprise, hands palm down on the wall on either side of him. Luke’s staring at him with furious concentration and Sam is about to kiss him to make him stop when suddenly Luke’s knee lifts and eases firmly against the line of Sam’s cock._ _

__Sam almost doubles over with the shock of it. His head falls forward against Luke’s, pushing back against the pressure, growling against the _perfect_ feel of it._ _

__“Fuck-“ Luke breathes against him, rocking his knee again. Harder._ _

__Sam moans helplessly. Loudly. Too damn loudly. But Luke’s there, catching it quiet against his lips, smothering the noise before anyone can hear and swallowing the gasps of pleasure, pushing his tongue against Sam’s to match the rhythm of his knee and suddenly that spot under Sam’s stomach is going tight and his body takes over._ _

__His hands grab Luke’s hips firmly, lifting him up, forcing him back against the wall, and Luke’s right there with him, wrapping his legs around Sam’s hips and canting his just right and—_ _

__That’s a cock._ _

__Sam startles back, eyes wide, breath suddenly shaky._ _

__There’s nothing else. Nothing but the feeling of that hard hot line pressed tight against his own erection._ _

___What the fuck is he doing?_ _ _

__He holds there. Totally still. Staring down into the space between them, listening to his own heartbeat thud against his chest. And then there’s a hand gripping his jaw, pulling his hanging mouth tight to another, and the hips against his snap forward._ _

__Sam gasps, mouth falling open against the one under his._ _

__Luke does it again._ _

__Sam clamps down a groan and then he’s gone with it. His hands tighten hard on Luke’s hips, lifting him a little higher and he let’s his own need take over, slamming Luke back against the wall with a hard thrust, sliding their clothed erections tighter than before._ _

__Luke swears, head falling back against the wall with a sharp bang, and Sam doesn’t even care. He does it again, and again, the rhythm building far, _far _too easily, the tightness in his stomach getting dangerous.___ _

____Luke’s collar bone is shining out of the neck of his shirt and suddenly Sam’s opening his mouth on it, dragging his teeth along the bone as he cants his hips again, sliding up and along more that just against. and Luke apparently needs something to hold onto as his breath breaks, and that something is apparently Sam’s hair._ _ _ _

____The pain lights up Sam’s skull and suddenly everything goes dark. The pressure shoves it’s way right to the front and Sam’s hammering Luke against the wall, grinding his cock against the rough of jeans and heat and hard without thinking, without caring. His teeth want to clamp shut, grind together under the building explosion behind his eyes but they find flesh first, locking hard in a shoulder, wet and firm._ _ _ _

____Someone hisses through teeth, but he hardly hears. His climax shoves into him, all drag and warmth. There’s the feeling of damp against jeans and another painful pull at his hair and then someone’s stuttering out a staggering warning of, “Sam—” before shaking to pieces._ _ _ _

____Slowly, bit by bit, things come back into focus._ _ _ _

____First there’s pain. A dull throbbing at the back of his scalp. A cramp in his left thigh. Scratches on a few knuckles where they’d rubbed against the wall._ _ _ _

____Then there’s discomforting. Tacky. Warm._ _ _ _

____And finally, there’s the reality of a body- chest rising and falling tight against his own, and the smell of bourbon and smoke filling up his head._ _ _ _

____Sam staggers back._ _ _ _

____Luke let’s out a short sound of surprise and almost falls, catching himself against the speaker next to them. And _shit_ , maybe not such a good idea, because’s Sam’s legs apparently think they’re a little too long to work and he stumbles, just managing to get ahold of them before he totally wipes out._ _ _ _

____He takes a deep breath and pushes his sweat-damp bangs away from his face. “Fuck.”_ _ _ _

____“Mmm.” And the assumed cool in Luke’s voice would be much more convincing if it didn’t sound like he was still shaking._ _ _ _

____Sam sighs. He takes a few steps forward, and let’s his body slump back against the wall next to Luke’s._ _ _ _

____Not touching. Definitely not touching._ _ _ _

____“So.” Luke sighs, “Are we forgetting this as well?_ _ _ _

____Sam stares blankly ahead of them. The haze of his orgasm is still floating around inside his skull, but a few things are jostling through it into clarity._ _ _ _

____“Here.” He murmurs._ _ _ _

____Luke rolls his head to face him. “Hm?”_ _ _ _

____“This happens here.” Sam swallows. “I want you here. Nowhere else.”_ _ _ _

____Luke’s still watching him. Sam can feel it even if he can’t see him the way he’s facing._ _ _ _

____“Why?”_ _ _ _

____“You’re an asshole everywhere else.” Sam says._ _ _ _

____Luke grins. “I’m an asshole here.”_ _ _ _

____Sam’s almost tempted to laugh but he swallows it back. He sighs once more, shuts his eyes, and then faces him firmly._ _ _ _

____“After you sing. After the shows. Nowhere else. No one knows. And we don’t talk about it. Ever.”_ _ _ _

____Luke’s staring at Sam like he’s never quite seen him before._ _ _ _

____“Alright?” Sam asks, stare hard._ _ _ _

____Luke leans back against the wall, evaluating him carefully._ _ _ _

____Eventually, he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Alright.”_ _ _ _

____Sam holds his gaze for a second longer before turning and walking back to the RV as quickly as he can, promising any god that might be listening unending loyalty if Gabriel doesn’t pop up in front of him before he gets there._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____He’s going to kill him. He’s actually going to kill him._ _ _ _

____Two nights in a row. If he wanted the job so damn bad the least he could do is _show up.__ _ _ _

____Dean puts the amp down in the back of the trailer, the dull metal sound echoing quietly against the noise of the rain on the roof above him._ _ _ _

____That’s one. And there’s five more. If he could find his tree of a brother they could have been done ten minute ago, but no, just him. And the amps. And the fucking rain._ _ _ _

____There’s a dull thud of an amp being placed behind him._ _ _ _

____Dean spins, “Fucking finally, man jesus what took you—”_ _ _ _

____Cas smiles back at him, wiping his wet hair away from his face._ _ _ _

____“Hello, Dean.”_ _ _ _

____Dean opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Which probably has something to do with the way Cas’ shirt’s sticking a bit to his shoulders where it’s damp from the rain, and how in that light, his neck’s just a little too shiny._ _ _ _

____“I thought I would help.” Cas says. “I didn’t get a chance to see you last night.”_ _ _ _

____Dean clears his throat looking _well the fuck_ away from slippery necks and big blue eyes and damp black hair framing it all. “Yeah, sorry, I was pretty beat. The heat I think. I just crashed.”_ _ _ _

____Cas’ voice is a little closer. “Where’s Sam?”_ _ _ _

____“Fuck if I know,” Dean grumbles, nudging the amp further back into the trailer._ _ _ _

____“Hmm.” Cas’ voice is really just fucking torture in a big hollow space like this. Even the smallest sound feels like the word of God or something equally lame and awesome all at once._ _ _ _

____“I can help.” Cas offers._ _ _ _

____Dean let’s out a heavy sigh._ _ _ _

____“Or not.” Cas edits._ _ _ _

____“No, I-“ Dean hurries, turning to face him and, _shit,_ when did he get that close? “Sorry, I’m just pissed at Sam. That’s all.”_ _ _ _

____“Brothers.” Cas shrugs with a small smile._ _ _ _

____Dean laughs, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”_ _ _ _

____It’s quiet for a moment, the rain beating out a steady rhythm along with the cars rushing by outside._ _ _ _

____“May I help?” Cas tries._ _ _ _

____Dean smiles. Weakly. “Dude. It’s your stuff, you don’t have to ask.”_ _ _ _

____“I feel like i should.”_ _ _ _

____Dean shakes his head, dropping it down. “Shit. Sorry.”_ _ _ _

____“Hey-“_ _ _ _

____There’s a hand on his._ _ _ _

____Dean goes totally still._ _ _ _

____It’s hardly there, barely a graze, wet and cold and gentle. Just a brush of fingers against his thumb, stopping him in place._ _ _ _

____And then it’s gone._ _ _ _

____“It’s fine.” Cas says quickly, voice suddenly rushed and shy. “Really.”_ _ _ _

____Dean convinces his body to not be lame as fuck and actually look at the guy, and is he, _blushing?_ No. Only Dean’s that pathetic. _ _ _ _

____“We should do something.” Cas says suddenly._ _ _ _

____Dean stares. “What?”_ _ _ _

____“I mean,” Cas tries again, closing his eyes like he’s irritated with himself. “We’re always here. Working. And, well, that’s fine, but we should do something. Together.”_ _ _ _

____Dean clears his throat. “Uh, like, what?”_ _ _ _

____Cas sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, it’s a stupid idea.”_ _ _ _

____“No it’s not.” He says _way_ too fast._ _ _ _

____Cas looks up instantly._ _ _ _

____Dean tries to pretend that didn’t sound as desperate as it obviously did. “I mean, no, that’s, fine. Good. Something.”_ _ _ _

____Cas smiles, small and still weirdly embarrassed. “Coffee?”_ _ _ _

____“Coffee.” Dean smiles. Without combusting. Somehow._ _ _ _

____Cas grins, wide and open, and turns back towards the door. “So, the rest of the amps?”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah, let’s wrap it up.” Dean agrees._ _ _ _

____Cas jumps down from the trailer and heads for the theater. Dean follows. He stops before heading inside, turning his face up into the rain just long enough to swear at whoever’s up there watching his life crumble apart underneath him._ _ _ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cuts in, “There was that ex-ultimate fighter who just_ had _to get backstage, and then it was the rouge electrician pushing you around and trying to sabotage the equipment, and then it was, what did you say? … Too many seagulls?”_
> 
> _“Seagulls are nasty,” Sam mutters, glancing down at the railing. “They were pooping on the equipment.”_
> 
> _A twitch tempts at the edge of Dean’s mouth. “Were they violent seagulls?”_
> 
> _“Aren’t they all?” Sam counters with impressive seriousness._

Sam’s really starting to hate belts. 

He hates the way they jam exactly in the wrong place in exactly the _right_ way. He hates how much he loves the way they clank against each other in all the muddled confusion of jerked hips and tight pulls. And he especially hates just how fucking easily Luke can snap his hand under Sam’s, give him a quick tug, and get him exactly where he wants him.

“Don’t do that,” Sam growls, getting a hand in his hair and tilting his head where he wants it.

Luke’s smile is all teeth against his neck. “You like it.”

Sam snaps his hands under his ass and picks him up, shoving him down on the nearest speaker against the dark of the backstage curtains. “Don’t tell me what I like.”

Luke’s looks far too likely to say something snarky so Sam kisses him hard enough to knock the breath out of him, pushing deep and rough in a way that has Luke’s teeth catching on his lip as he grits down against the pain. But Sam just presses him open, sliding his hands up his thighs, tight under the dark of his jeans while Luke melts into his mouth, nipping and shoving just as insistently.

Sam’s starting to wonder if this even counts as sex. Sex has never been like this. Sex has far more contentment and far less bruising. And it doesn’t normally come with orgasms that make him feel like someone’s taken out his intestines with a shovel.

Luke runs his teeth up the side of his neck and circles his tongue against that spot, a spot he should in no way be _that_ familiar with this quickly. Sam can’t quite bring himself to care about that. He lets his hands tighten on the line of Luke’s hips, driving his thumbs against the bones there and slotting them together in a way that has Luke’s breath suddenly stuttering against his neck.

“Fuck, Sam—“ Luke groans, “You’re going to kill me.”

Sam can’t help smiling just a little and snapping his hips forward as he tugs Luke’s closer. Luke gasps, head falling back.

“God, I haven’t jacked off so much since I was fourteen,” Luke breathes.

“Yeah.” Sam huffs out a short laugh. “I know what you mean.”

“Mmm,” Luke rumbles, slipping his hand into Sam’s hair and tightening it as he lifts himself up just enough to angle better, “and what would you be thinking about?”

“Mostly?” Sam grits, clamping down a moan as Luke’s cock hits him just right. “You shutting the fuck up.”

Luke pulls back enough the glare at him and then suddenly, with a flashing smirk and _no_ warning, his hand is on the clothed length of Sam’s cock.

Sam’s suddenly breathless. He can’t feel anything, he can hardly see anything, except the steady push of a palm against him. His eyes slam shut as the ball of Luke’s hand grinds against the head of his cock and he can’t help dropping his face down into the curve of Luke’s shoulder.

He’s never, ever had a hand that big on him except for his own and fuck it definitely never felt this good. 

Luke pushes fiercer and Sam _whines_ , his cock jumping into something impossibly harder, feeling Luke groan under him at his unrestrained reaction. 

“Sam-” Luke growls, “what do you want?”

He urges his hand that much faster and Sam’s moaning, mouth open and wet on Luke’s shoulder. “Just— this.”

Luke’s hands are moving, snatching Sam’s hips and pushing him back from the locked place between them.

Sam stares down, brow furrowing under his mussed hair and hanging jaw. Luke’s hands are suddenly moving for his belt with freakishly deft speed.

Sam should say something, he really wants to say something, because he’s going to be standing in a small space behind an outdoor stage with his dick in a guy’s hand in a few seconds if he doesn’t, but Luke’s already thumbing open the button on his jeans and snatching at the zipper, and then he’s looking up at Sam from his seated position, blue eyes thick and blown out and _jesus._

“Are you going to stop me?” His voice is low, rough, and too damn good.

Sam swallows, shaking his head faster than he knew he could before leaning forward to catch his lips again with a sharp intake. He manages to hold on for a second, maybe two, and then he’s pulling away with a gasp so sharp is actually shocks him.

Luke’s hand is wrapped around him so fucking perfectly. It’s all weight and heat and so _huge_. It’s nothing like girls, the way their thin fingers curl around delicately, covering what they can, and always a little bit unsure of exactly what to do. 

He doesn’t hesitant. His hand covers Sam and moves instantly, confidently, one rough thumb urging up under the head while his fist tugs him possessively, demanding and controlling, and so exactly right. He handles him like he _owns_ him and that should _in no way_ be turning Sam on as much as it is.

Luke’s fist snaps down and Sam’s voice stumbles on a groan.

He catches himself, clamping down his jaw and slamming his eyes shut and breathing hard through his nose because if he doesn’t focus he’s going to be making a total idiot out of himself and a mess of both of them in a few minutes, but jesus his legs are suddenly shaking and it’s a fucking miracle that Luke’s knees are clamped around the back of his because they’re basically holding him up at this point. 

Sam’s fucking lost. Luke’s pace doesn’t shift doesn’t slow or let up, just shoves down and tugs up and Sam’s muttering words he can’t even understand against the line of his neck, and then Luke’s breathes are going short and stumbling and suddenly he has a hand in Sam’s hair and is pulling it back hard.

He holds him tight, hardly a foot away, staring up into his face with such ferocity that Sam’s suddenly almost terrified. But he doesn’t get a chance to hold onto that for long because Luke has other plans. His pace on Sam’s cock becomes impossible and Sam can’t breath fast enough, can’t catch enough air to even groan and his eyes fall down, catching the sight of Luke’s hand pumping his cock as it gleams with pre-cum and _fuck—_

“Shit, I’m—“ Sam tries and then Luke’s hand tightens in his hair and his knee urges between Sam’s legs and Sam’s coming. 

His hips stutter and there’s a flash of Luke’s blue eyes sharp and glazed with lust, and the image of Sam’s own cock emptying in shaky thrusts between them, coating the hand around it and spilling against the dark of Luke jean’s, and then suddenly Luke’s biting his lip and letting out a shocked little gasp and his hand stutters against Sam as he bites down on a grunt. 

Things go still. Well. Besides the chest heaving. And the breath catching. And the speaker scooting just a little bit further backwards under them.

After half a moment Sam leans back. Luke carefully uncurls his wrist, drawing a small wince from Sam to which he murmurs an apology. 

Sam manages to get himself tucked back into his jeans without falling over. Luke’s still supporting 90% of his body weight against the speaker under him, head lolled back, eyes shut, legs sprawled and jeans stained damp on…both sides?

Sam stares. “Did you…?”

“Shut up.” Luke sighs without looking at him.

But Sam’s already smiling. “You totally did.”

“You’re pretty when you cum,” Luke hums.

Sam lets the smirk turn into a full grin. “You came in your pants.”

“You’re _very_ pretty when you cum,” Luke drawls. He adjusts his position, lolling forward to support himself on his elbows against his knees, eyeing Sam hungrily. “Especially when I know I’m the first guy to see it.”

Sam shakes his head, turning to finish doing up his belt. He half expects to feel Luke’s hands slip around his waist from behind. He’s ready to shove him off, to push him aside and hurry back to reality. But there’s nothing, just a quiet space, and when he turns Luke’s already gone.

 

He wakes up to the smell of bacon with the memory of short hair between his fingers and the taste of smoke on his tongue.

Sam’s eyes drift open. There’s gentle sounds of utensils and kitchen fiddling floating around him. He frowns, groans, and rolls over onto his stomach, sighing into his pillow and squinting against the light spilling in around him.

He pulls himself off the pillow enough to be audible. “…Dean?” He calls.

“Morning!” A far too chipper voice calls back.

“Um… what’s going on?”

“Breakfast!” The voice comes back. “Complete with actual carbs!”

Sam lifts himself up on his elbows. “What time is it?”

“Ten.”

Sam sits up very quickly. “Shit.”

“Yeah, so get your ass up already!” Dean yells back.

Sam flips his legs over the side and starts pulling on his jeans. “Are we late for something?”

“Common decency." Dean tries.

Sam tugs his shirt on. “Hilarious.”

He stands and jimmies open the flimsy bedroom door, ducking his head and pushing his way out into the kitchen.

The counter is overflowing with mixing bowls, egg cartons, milk jugs, coffee grinds, and all manner of breakfast disarray.

“So… how long did it take you to get the raccoon out of here,” Sam asks.

“I was actually expecting ‘thanks for breakfast, best brother ever’, but I guess ‘fuck you’ works too.”

Sam laughs, heading towards the bathroom and blessed, blessed toothpaste. “Sorry.”

“Damn right,” Dean counters. “So what the hell? Should I even expect to see you at tear down tonight?”

Sam coughs around his toothbrush, trying not to swallow too much minty forth.

“Where the fuck did you go anyways?” Dean yells from the kitchen.

Sam pulls his toothbrush free and spits, turning on the sink to splash water over his face and shut his eyes tightly. 

“Is it like that Twilight Zone where the guy suddenly walks through a door and is somewhere else and then comes back and it’s been years?” Dean jokes.

Sam dries off his face, stepping back out. “Which one was that.”

“I don’t know, they were all kinda like that.”

Sam laughs, pulling on the t-shirt that’s hanging over the back of the folding kitchen table and sliding into a seat.

“So?” Dean asks, flipping the eggs.

“What?” Sam turns.

“Where the fuck were you?” Dean repeats.

Sam clears his throat. “Oh. Uh… there was a… fan… a fan incident.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean half looks over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam says, brow furrowing. “There was this dude, he was trying to get backstage, I had to kinda force him back out.”

“Huh. So he got past the regular security.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “Very sneaky.”

“Did he do that?” Dean asks, turning and putting a plate down in front of Sam. He’s eyeing Sam’s neck, and the purple notch along the side of it.

Sam’s covering it with a hand way too quickly. “No, no, that’s… a mosquito got in here last night. I couldn’t find it. I’ve been itching it all morning. Bad habit.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Dean says, obviously bored already. He plops his own plate down and slides in, snatching a piece of bacon instantly.

“Sorry.” Sam says. Again.

“Hey, I was supposed to be doing it alone anyways, right?” Dean shrugs.

Sam eyes him. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes I am.” Dean smiles around a mouthful of bacon. “Two shows, one town. New England. Ocean smell. And no driving for at least the next twenty four hours. Who knows, we might even get some time to do something besides loading amps and picking up speakers.”

Sam smiles. “That would be nice.”

He turns to his own breakfast. There’s scrambled eggs heaped up in a pile and a couple of pancakes with a criminal amount of butter and syrup along with at least six pieces of bacon. He can’t remember the last time he ate that much before lunch. In all honestly, breakfast back in Berkley is usually a smoothie and maybe some granola. 

Dean eyes him expectantly.

Fuck it. Dean always made awesome breakfast. He takes a few massive bites and Dean goes back to his own food with a satisfied expression.

Well… while he’s blatantly doing things that aren’t going to work out well for him…

“Hey Dean?”

“Mm?” Dean muffles around a heaping bite of pancake.

“What’s sex with dudes like?”

Dean chokes. One bit of pancake ends up squarely on Sam’s cheek and Sam’s flailing to shove it off while Dean tries to knock the breath back into his chest and not die laughing all at once.

“Jesus!” Sam shouts.

Dean’s still recovering. “What the fuck was that?!”

“What?” Sam shouts, face already going red and defensive. “It’s just a question!”

“A really fucking out of damn nowhere question!” Dean gapes, finally managing to swallow his mouthful and actually get it down.

“You’re always bugging me about sex stuff!” Sam insists. “Why can’t I once in a while?”

Dean’s smiling like an idiot. “No, dude, you totally can. It’s just really fucking hilarious.”

“What?” Sam pouts.

Dean assumes a face, mocking Sam’s head flick to get his bangs out of his face. “ So, umm, Dean, I’m curious, about the _’sex’_ with the _’men’_.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam snaps. “Sorry I asked.”

“No, no.” Dean shakes his head. “Sorry, just come on, you have to give me a little. I mean… that’s kinda out of left field. Kinda out of the field behind left field, honestly.”

“I’m curious.” Sam says, eyes deadpan. “Am I not allowed to be curious?”

“No, it’s cool. Seriously.” Dean says. Grinning. Still. “It’s um… sex with guys, it’s uh, different. And not. Different and not.”

Sam stares. “Yeah. Really insightful. Thanks Dean.”

Dean laughs, “Sorry, jesus, just, let me get a hold of my brain again okay?”

He sighs and leans back. Sam takes another bite of eggs, waiting for him to start.

“Well, guys know _exactly_ how everything works. But they’re harder to shove around… You’re never really totally in control with guys, I mean I guess you’re not with girls either, but with girls the fact that you’re the one with the junk is kinda a vital part. And with guys you both have junk so things sort of level out… And it’s, easier? In a way? I mean you’re kinda both in it for the same end goal. More straightforward. I guess.”

Sam snorts.

“What?”

“Oh, I just forgot most girls you sleep with you’ve lied through your teeth to first.”

“Hey!”

Sam gives him a look that asks if he’s really going to try and deny that.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe. But still… Anyways, there’s two ways to have sex with guys and only one way to have sex with girls, so...”

“What do you mean?”

Dean gives him a look. “Tops and bottoms, Sammy.”

Sam stares blankly. “What? Like shirts and pants?”

Dean’s looking at him like he’s five years old.

“What?!” Sam says, “I don’t fuck guys, I don’t know this stuff!”

“Don’t have to fuck guys to know tops and bottoms Sam, jesus! Do you never watch porn?”

“Not gay porn!” Sam yells back.

“Fine, fine.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, think about it for a second man. Use your-“ there’s a hand gesture- “imagggination.”

Sam looks down at his breakfast. Ah. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I get it.”

“Jesus.” Dean swears, letting his head roll back.

“So… what’s it like?”

“Which one?”

“Um… the, top one?”

Dean sighs, resting one arm over the back of the seat and snatching another piece of bacon with the other. 

“Well… I don’t want to get too graphic here.”

“God, please don’t.”

“Hey, you asked.”

Sam nods, because, jesus, he did, and he’s actually way too damn invested in this conversation to stop now.

“So, girls come with awesome benefits, you know. I really fucking hate the word ‘moist’ so let’s go with ‘slippery’ which sounds way too much like something to do with dolphins but-“

“I get it!” Sam breaks in firmly throwing a hand up. “I get it.”

“Yeah, so, there’s that. Which is awesome. But, the other way has it’s own pros, which make it _way_ worth the hassle.”

Sam looks up. “…Like what?”

Dean stares at him like he couldn’t be more stupid. “It’s really fucking tight okay, Sam?”

Sam’s looking directly down at his eggs, and fuck, his face is literally going to melt off and drip away. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean waves his hand. “Any other awkward as fuck questions for family breakfast?”

Well… he’s already this far in, and he’s _never_ going to start a conversation like this _ever_ again so…

“What about the other one?”

“What?”

“The other… way to have sex with guys.” Sam swallows. “What’s that like?”

Dean eyes Sam carefully for a moment and then leans forward heavily on his elbows with a sigh. “Okay, so let’s just pretend that I even know what that’s like, and let’s pretend that I can tell you from experience, because wether or not that’s the case, that’s kinda where I’m gonna have to draw some line if we’re going to talk about this.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

“So… I’m assuming you have… no idea? You’ve never…?”

Sam stares.

“Tried things out on the home front?” Dean winces.

“No!” Sam says firmly. “No…”

“Well… it’s awesome. Actually.” Dean says, leaning back and taking a bite of eggs. “I mean, you want to know, honestly?”

Sam nods.

“Okay. At first, it’s awkward as hell, and you ask yourself what the fuck you were thinking, and why the hell anyone does this, because it basically feels like taking a shit only ten times more weird and maybe a little hot which is even weirder. But then, then it hit’s _that_ spot. And suddenly things make a lot more sense. Because it’s awesome.” He laughs and shakes his head. “It actually, really is.”

Sam’s focusing intently on his eggs, inching them back and forth with his fork.

“You just have to watch it, because you fart a bunch the next day.”

“Okay I think we’re done.”

The door to their RV suddenly flies open and all at once Gabriel’s hanging over the back of the kitchenette with sunglasses hanging off his nose, a massive beach hat on his head, and an inflatable shark in one hand that’s taking up 90% of their doorway.

“BEACH TIME!” He beams.

Dean stares.

Gabriel frowns. “Why does Sam look like he’s been slow roasted?”

Sam glares. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“It’s sunny. We’re not driving. We’re going to the beach. You have two minutes to find sunscreen.” Gabriel grins. “Bathing suits optional, unless Sam’s whole body is that awkward beet color cause that’s no good to any body.”

 

Dean’s clambering out of Sam’s car as fast as he can. He’s not going to admit it, but he’s actually giddy as fuck and having a bit of a hard time resisting running until the feeling of pavement under his feet turns to sand. He controls himself by taking a big breath of _awesome_ salty air and watching the others try to make their way out of the car. 

Cas had insisted that taking the bus wasn’t fuel efficient under the circumstances, and Dean was no way in hell letting a spec of sand into Baby, let alone four salt-sticky bodies. So, it was Sam’s tiny-ass Japanese tin-box they'd taken and now Gabriel is kicking Luke’s back to try and force his way out.

Dean pops the trunk and grabs their shit, making a b-line for the water while they sort themselves out, but the rest aren’t far behind and soon enough their settling in on a the sand, the sun crashing down over the green New England ocean as it spreads out in front of them.

Dean sighs and lets himself fall back onto his towel, the warmth of the sand leaking up from underneath.

_This_ is just about right.

He let’s his eyes open up to the blue sky up above them. It’s a fucking _perfect_ day, just over eighty degrees, not a cloud to be seen, and he’s suddenly way too glad that Gabriel’s around to come up with such stupid ideas.

He’s never actually been to a Rhode Island beach before, but it’s pretty much exactly the same as the Cape. The sand is fine but there’s those lines of seaweed every ten feet or so marking the points where the tide hits, and in amongst the sand are decent sized shells, bits of crabs, stones, all that New England junk. The smell is thick and rough and you can almost feel the salt inching into your bones. He squinches his toes in the sand, urging them under the burning heat of the top few layers into the cool moist stuff underneath.

Gabriel’s dumping a bag of sandcastle supplies off next to them while Luke collapses face first down into the heat of the sand and pretty much _purrs_ as he settles into the heat of it.

“You’ll get your clothes sandy,” Cas scolds.

Dean rolls to eye him and _mistake_. Big mistake.

Cas’ stripped off his shirt, leaving just plain navy trunks on that ride six inches or so above his knees. All in all, it’s pretty damn normal beach wear, except for the fact that Cas actually has _way_ more bulk to his build than Dean was expecting and his hair got pushed stupid when he whipped his shirt off and his shoulders have these little freckles where the sun hits them the hardest, and he needs to stop staring _now_.

Luckily he’s saved the trouble by Gabriel letting out an ear busting wolf whistle. They all spin to look.

Sam’s taken his shirt off and chucked it over his shoes. 

“Hot damn kiddo!” Gabriel yells, eyeing his torso. “Where the fuck was _that_ on your resume?!”

Sam glares at him. “I didn’t send you one.”

“Great. Forget it. Just let me get my phone here, snap a few pics, and make you a new one then. Or maybe we should just start an Instagram for those abs?“

Sam kicks at his shoulder and Gabriel spills backwards cackling.

“Turn around.” A voice snaps suddenly.

It’s so fucking out of nowhere and so weirdly authoritative that Dean finds himself turning with everyone else and then Luke’s staring dead at Sam. He’s lifted himself off the sand, leaning back on his elbows with his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and looking like someone who’s either been hit by a truck or is about to be. 

Dean’s glances back at Sam who’s going all red and idiot faced. 

“Let’s leave Sam some sense of personal boundaries,” Cas sighs gently.

“Do we have to?” Gabriel whines. 

“Yes.” Sam snaps, turning away while his cheeks red up to match his shorts as he shakes out his towel.

Luke’s still watching but things seem to have eased into a more settled and contented surveying than the straight up scalding stare. After a moment he leans back with a sigh and then jumps up all at once.

“Swimming,” He says simply, stripping off his own shirt and tossing it down behind him as he stretches.

“Damn.” Dean can’t help gaping. “That’s some serious ink man.”

“Oh?” Luke says, as if he’d forgotten he has a massive aztec style tattoo of a snake wrapping around the side of his body to catch it’s own tail in it’s mouth just along the front side of his ribs.

He glances down at his own side and then eyes it like he’s not quite sure it’s all that. “What do you think, Sam?”

But Sam’s not looking, he’s actually not looking so hard it almost seems like he’s trying to turn the sand under his feet into glass just with the power of will. “Not like I’ve never seen an ouroboros before.”

“Are you sure?” Luke grins, giving a good long stretch again, sending the rippling patterns that make up the body of the snake inching and urging over the lines of his ribs and the heavier muscles around his torso. “You can take a closer look if you want.”

Sam turns his ultra powered glare onto Luke and turns it up a few notches. “No. Thanks.”

Luke can’t seem to help grinning again before shrugging. “Coming, Cassy?”

Cas sighs next to Dean and stretches back in a way that definitely doesn’t have Dean’s jaw hanging a little looser than usual. “Of course.”

He stands up, nudging his shirt off his towel with his foot. 

“Weirdos.” Gabriel sighs, thumbing his sunglasses up into place. “You always do this - you’re supposed to _sun_ before you swim. Common decency.”

“Swim first.” Luke and Cas say at once, as if it’s a commandment.

Gabriel sighs, shaking his hair back slightly and leaning deeper into his inflatable shark. “Baptists.”

“Coming?” Cas asks.

Dean looks up. The sun is behind Cas’ head and he has to squint to look up at him properly, but even against the light he can see his smile.

“Yeah.” Dean says instantly, already feeling that stupid grin slide over his face. “Totally.”

Cas smiles back and then they’re heading towards the water.

Luke doesn’t even slow, walking at full tilt right into the waves and then diving straight under the first one that’s up the chest level, staying under for a good ten seconds and then popping up with a solid flick of his head and an indecent groan as he leans back in the water.

Dean can feel the sand going hard and cool under his feet as he gets closer, then softer again as the waves start to wash over them. The water’s perfect, just cool enough, and the smell of salt is so strong and awesome he can almost feel his hair going thicker under it.

He glances over, watching as Cas walks in up to his knees and let’s his eyes slip shut. He tilts his head back just a touch, lifting his chin into the feeling of the slight breeze pushing off the water and urging his hair hardly a touch back and forth. He lifts his arms up to either side as a smile spreads over his cheeks and he stands there, spread open, taking in the feeling of the summer all around them as the light of the high summer sun crashes off the waves and sends brightness dancing. 

For a few moments, Dean can’t remember how to think.

“What’s that?” Cas says suddenly lifting his eyes open and turning to him.

“Huh?” Dean manages.

“You started to say something?”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh no, I don’t think so. Hey, come on, it’s getting cold.” He grins and hurries into the wake before he let’s himself realize that he just almost said I love you to a guy standing on a beach for absolutely no reason what so fucking ever.

 

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam sighs, easing a little deeper into his towel. “What?”

“You’ve still got a little drool on your face,” Gabriel says.

“Shut up,” Sam growls.

“Or is that something other than drool? Snake venom maybe? I hear that’s catching.”

“Shut. Up.”

But Gabriel’s already giggling to himself as he takes a sip of Corona.

Down the beach a little ways there’s a few high pitched sounds. Sam rolls his head a bit and squints to look. There’s four or five girls about fifty feet or so away giggling to each other. One of them waves in their direction before her friend catches her hand and tugs it back down.

Gabriel grins and waves back.

The giggling increases.

Sam rolls over onto his stomach with a sigh. “I thought you guys had interviews today.”

“Nah, that’s tomorrow. We saved the press stuff for Boston.” Gabriel says, stretching his feet out into the sand in front of himself, letting his open Hawaiian shirt expose more of his chest to the sunshine.

“So weird,” Sam says, flipping to his back again.

“What?”

“Oh, I just forget sometimes that you guys are actually ‘rockstars’ or whatever.”

Gabriel sighs dramatically, “So do I Samuel. These chains of fame, they can weigh so damn heavy.” He lifts his sunglasses in the direction of the girls down the beach and tips his beer in their direction.

“Weird,” Sam confirms.

“Awesome.” Gabriel defines, eyeing the gigglers. “What do you think? Should we issue a volleyball challenge?”

Sam grins. “Once I have like three more beers.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Drawing attention?” Another voice asks.

Sam glances up.

Luke’s standing next to them, still dripping from the water. His hair’s turned dark with the water and pushed back from his face and looking _way_ too close to _way_ too many thoughts Sam _definitely_ should never have had.

Sam rolls over onto his stomach quickly and pushes his face into the curve of his elbow, hating the feeling on Luke’s smile against his back.

Luke grins back to Gabriel. “Volleyball challenge?”

As it turns out, rockstars have very little modesty when it comes to volleyball domination, and if the girls weren’t starstruck as hell and half swooned over already by the time they started Sam’s pretty sure they would have left with a vicious hatred for every single one of them. 

And, yeah, maybe he did get a little competitive, but it’s not his fault he has awesome reach and that he and Dean hadn’t played together since he was fifteen. Not to mention the fact that Luke had a damn near perfect serve and Cas was _always_ setting him up just right, and if he’s set up, well, it would just be stupid not to spike it down hard enough to send sand at blinding speeds into the competition’s faces.

It might have gone a bit far when Gabriel suggested he let his inflatable shark play on their side to see if it made a difference and they all whooped and high-fived each other like the biggest assholes ever to walk the earth. But who’s he kidding? He can get a little competitive, and Dean can get _a lot_ competitive, and apparently Luke likes winning as much as he craves praise and Cas and Gabriel have this weird sneaky _super intense_ side to them where their eyes go all dark and manic and power hungry and they’re suddenly yelling insults like it’s a Shakespearian street war.

They had to stop eventually, even though they’d won about six and the girl’s desire to play on the beach with topless rockstars apparently infinitely increased their tolerance for sports humiliation. They hadn’t wanted to stop, but Sam had jumped for a _perfect_ block on their side and come down wrong on his ankle.

He just manages to let out a short yelp of surprise and then was knees first in the sand before fully toppling over like the tree he can’t deny he is.

A sharp snap of pain springs to life around the bones of his ankle and he winces sharply.

“Here,” a voice calls, and Sam’s grabbing the hand offered to him without thinking. His ankle protests under him strong enough to make him stumble again, but a hand’s catching around his waist and holding him steady.

“Careful,” the voice demands, but gently and with such concern and suddenly Sam’s turning to see who the fuck is actually there.

Luke stares back at him, brows deep with concern and eyes sharp as if trying to glare the pain out of him. His hand’s strong but careful around his waist, the opposite of demanding.

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly.

“Uh,” Sam tries, attempting to get his own body weight under his control. “Yeah, um, it’s just my ankle, I think it’s okay, I’ll just… stop.”

Luke nods, the concern still there and still so soft that Sam has to look away, giving a shout to Dean and transferring his weight to him as soon as he’s close enough. 

It really isn’t all that bad, and they’re all laughing their way back to the car after half an hour, even if Dean does have to drive back, just to be “on the safe side” as Cas put it.

 

Sam’s still rolling his ankle back and forth as he leans against the railing along the edge of the park, watching the lights fill up the stage.

It’s still warm, but New England always feels different, even in the heat. New York can hang onto it brutally, but here, on the coastlines just that much further north, there’s a lightness to the air as it rolls off the sea. The salt has a stick to it, but it’s different from the hang of humidity, and sharp in a way that cuts through the rest, leaving a sense of _alive_ that the south just doesn’t have. 

The guys seem to be feeling it too, their sound is less laconic, not so much that drawling indulgent slide of what it had been down there. Now, it’s snapping on the edges, crisp and sharp and quick, pulling tight head bobs and toe taps out of the crowd, and after each song the crowd shouts out their approval with accents Sam hasn’t heard in years. 

He thinks he still might have a bit of sand under his feet from the beach but he ignores that easily enough, focusing hard on where Luke’s belting out the last cords of what he knows is the last song before the encore he’s damn sure the crowd is going to need. 

The song slips away and the cheers rise to fill the silence and Sam’s lifting his hands to clap above his head when suddenly a hand grabs his wrist.

“Hold on a sec there,” Dean says, pulling his arm back down to the railing. “We have one more, maybe two.”

“Yeah,” Sam says raising a brow, “I know, I was actually that tall guy taping the set list to the stage an hour ago.”

“Har, har,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I just want to make sure you don’t go running off as soon as the encores start to wrap up.”

Sam’s stomach sinks slightly inside of him. He can hear the crowd’s volume raising as the band leaves, the stomping of feet already calling for their return. Even without looking he can see Luke raising a hand to salute the crowd, running fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs back where they’re just a little wet with sweat. His shirt’s probably lifting half an inch above his hip and maybe the very edge of that tattoo is sneaking out from underneath.

How the fuck had he missed that thing for so long? He definitely wasn’t missing it tonight. 

Or was he… He’d have to act fast.

“I don’t run off.” Sam tries.

Dean gives him a look.

“Look, I told you,” Sam starts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cuts in, “There was that ex-ultimate fighter who just _had_ to get backstage, and then it was the rouge electrician pushing you around and trying to sabotage the equipment, and then it was, what did you say? … Too many seagulls?”

“Seagulls are nasty,” Sam mutters, glancing down at the railing. “They were pooping on the equipment.”

A twitch tempts at the edge of Dean’s mouth. “Were they violent seagulls?”

“Aren’t they all?” Sam counters with impressive seriousness.

Dean can’t seem to help letting the smirk take over his face. “Sammy, look, I’m not an idiot.”

It’s too easy. “You’re not?”

Dean punches his shoulder.

“Hey!”

“Don’t be a smart ass.” Dean sighs, “And if you want to get your dick wet just say so.”

That wipes the smile off his face pretty damn fast. All he can really manage is standing there, gaping like a moron at Dean’s smirk and trying to think of something, _anything_ to say.

“Or hell, it seems like you kinda like smart asses so what the fuck so I know, let it rip.” Dean shrugs.

“I don’t like smart asses.” Sam manages.

Dean gives him a pitying look. “Sure you don’t. “

Sam shuts his mouth and turns back to the stage, watching as the crowd finally pulls the guys back on to it, watching as they slide their instruments back around them and start up once again to the explosion of noise from their audience.

“So, are you helping me with the breakdown?” Dean asks smugly.

Sam glares at the stage. He should say yes. He should say yes and wipe that smug expression off Dean’s face and make him eat it. That’s exactly what he should do.

And Luke should really stop rolling his hips like that, and he should _really_ stop letting his mouth hang around the notes and quit wetting his lips each time he takes a break to focus down where his guitar rests against his belt, hands moving quick and rough over the strings-

“No,” Sam grumbles.

“Okay,” Dean shrugs. “No worries man. You know me, I ain’t no cockblocker. But…”

Sam turns, waiting for the hammer to drop. “But…?”

Dean takes a sip of his beer, eyeing the stage with that stupid smug ass face still smacked over his. “But you’re gonna have to say it.”

Sam straightens. “Say what?”

“Say: you need to go get your dick wet.”

Sam’s face goes red in two seconds before he crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans heavily on the railing. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I want to gloat just a little after listening to you slam me with those sexual judgement eyes for the past fifteen years!”

Sam crosses his arms tighter.

“It’s not a big deal, I guess,” Dean sighs. “I’m just carrying all the amps, and putting back every single guitar and making sure the cables are all looped up and hung in the trailer and—“

“I need to go get my dick wet,” Sam snaps.

Dean chuckles into his beer. “There. Was that so hard?”

“You’re a dick.”

“I think they’re finishing up,” Dean observes, watching as Luke practically dumps his guitar on his way off stage as the crowd cheers.

Sam affords him on more glare and then heads in the backstage direction, kicking him in the back of the knees as he goes and getting a short sense of satisfaction as Dean chokes on his beer when he tries to catch himself and at least a mouthful of it goes up his nose.

 

Dean’s still snorting out the taste of hops as he watches Sam stiffly pout his way over to the backstage access. 

He laughs to himself as he wipes his flannel sleeve under his nose. “Bitch.”

Dean turns to look up at the stage. They’re definitely gone now, the lights are down and he can see the lurking shapes of his night’s worth of work up there waiting for him. Around him the crowd ebbs away with excitement still high in their voices, heading over to buy t-shirts or more beer or some late night oysters.

Dean sighs and turns, leaning his back against the railing and closing his eyes to finish his beer.

“Good show?”

His eyes open immediately.

Cas is leaning against the railing next to him, smiling with warm expectance. He still looks a little out of breath from the performance, forehead a little bit shiny in places and eyes bright and high on the praise of the crowd.

Dean barely manages to smile without gaping at him. “Yeah, yeah, awesome show.”

“Can I have some?” Cas says suddenly, nodding at the beer in his hands.

Dean looks down at it, “Um, yeah, sure.” He hands it over.

Cas’ hand closes right around his and takes a good few seconds too long to pull away with the cold can between his long fingers. He eases it to his lips and tilts his head back to drink, and Dean can’t help watching as his broad throat moves around the liquid and his rounded lips push against the metal of the can.

Cas pulls his back eventually and licks his lips once. “Thank you.”

Dean’s throat apparently hates him so he just nods and sort of smiles.

Cas looks back at him, blue eyes shining. “Coffee?”

Dean blinks. “I, uh, have to do the tear down.”

Cas shrugs. “Let the on-site guys take care of it. They’re good here. They don’t mind.”

“I think they might,” Dean insists.

“No,” Cas says, “I asked them. They’re fine.”

Dean stares. “Oh.”

Cas looks back at him, almost shyly and that’s just too damn much. Dean’s mouth is moving without his permission again.

“Coffee it is.” He smiles.

 

Backstage is far too confusing. He was here all afternoon and the day before and somehow, even though it’s an outside stage and there _really_ shouldn’t be this many corridors on an outdoor stage, he’s still spinning around yet _another_ one of them, staring around frantically. His pulse is really starting to get ridiculous, but he could have had his hands on him five minutes ago and that’s just a bit too much to handle with anything close to composure.

There. A flash of something moving quickly down the space behind the curtains.

“Hey!” Sam hears himself yell, instantly regretting the decision because _fuck_ it could literally be anyone.

But it isn’t anyone, and suddenly Luke’s whipping around the corner and moving towards him so fast Sam might have taken a step backwards if he wasn’t moving just as quickly himself.

He goes right for his shirt. Which might have worked. If Luke hadn’t done the exact same thing. And now their suddenly a mess of tangled arms and pulled fabric, both wrenching at the other’s tee between tight breaths and gritted teeth. 

Sam manages to catch the edge of Luke’s and moves to tug it upwards but Luke’s got his arm crossed in front, attempting to do the same thing. Sam can’t get back his elbow, so Sam goes for the other side, but suddenly Luke’s making a noise of pure frustration and then _far_ too quickly he’s shoving Sam’s head down, reaching over his back, and tugging his shirt all the way off over his head.

Sam can’t help letting out a yelp of surprise as his head flies back, hair _completely_ all over the place after the manhandling and skin suddenly way too aware that they are _outside_ and not even close to being unobservable and his body is prickling under the suddenly feeling of salty air around it.

But that doesn’t last long. In fact realistically it lasts less than half a second because Luke’s ducking down and running a tongue straight up the full length of his stomach and Sam’s yelping again, much higher and much more absurdly than before.

He snatches at Luke’s hair, pulling him up by it and kissing him hard and Luke’s laughing against his lips at Sam’s ironically obscene modesty, but Sam knows how to deal with that and runs his tongue along his bottom lip before biting it once firmly and urging his tongue in to slide against Luke’s.

Luke’s hands seem to be in some kind of land race with each other over Sam’s body. First, they’re resting firm and hard where the muscles of his hips dive into his jeans, thumbs driving relentlessly over the folds of muscles. Then they’re sliding up, exploring the lines of his stomach, fingers tracing the ridges of his hips and the muscles that lie on top of them, following those along to his chest and pushing hard against it only to slip behind his back again and sweep broad and full over the landscape there.

He can’t seem to help letting out a groan that’s caught up in a throaty laugh against Sam’s lips. “How long did you think you could keep this a secret?”

Sam really should just be kissing him harder, shutting him up like he always does, but instead he’s smiling against the curve of his neck, dragging his teeth along the far too familiar line of muscle. “I didn’t think you’d find it all that interesting.”

Luke laughs short, once, and then he’s kissing him again, hard and so deep that Sam feels his head spin, but no way he’s the only one who’s getting the best of this.

Sam braces both hands on his shoulders and gives him a good hard shove backwards, snatching at the back of his shirt and dragging it over his head in one smooth tug.

Luke let’s it slip off of him like water and then he’s slamming back into Sam, the heat of his chest tight on his, the slip of his skin far _far_ better than it should be.

Sam’s biting down a groan, tipping his head down so he can watch the size of his own hand trace along the length of that snake wrapped around Luke’s body. Luke’s built thickly, thicker than Sam for sure, and suddenly Sam’s wondering if he could actually lift more than him, with his waist solid muscle like that, all support and tight compression. But jesus christ, he’s already got more than an erection he’s not going to go totally go there.

Luke _purrs_ under the feeling of Sam’s touch, rolling against his hand and lolling his neck back, opening it up for Sam to attack it, running his mouth along the line of his collarbone and dragging it higher as Luke shudders under him, chest going red to match his flushed cheeks.

Sam grunts approving and backs him against the wall, probably taking too much pleasure in the thought of the lines that wall is going to embed in his bare skin when he slams him against it just as hard as he wants.

But he doesn’t get a chance, because suddenly Luke’s grabbing his hips and spinning _him_ around to hit his back into the wall, with all the strength Sam suspected was hiding there.

Sam’s breath goes out of him as he hits, eyes wide and shocked, skin feeling the cool of the metal stage supports behind him. Luke’s kissing him again instantly, pulling his lips apart with his own and his hands are sliding down, working at his belt and his jeans.

Sam slips a knee between his legs and Luke let’s himself grind into it breathlessly for half a moment before popping Sam’s jeans open and getting two hands around the edges.

Sam pulls free with a wet sound, “Whoa - wait—“ Because they are _outside_ and there’s almost no cover and pretty much anyone could turn around the corner at any moment.

But Luke doesn’t seem to hear him, yanking hard and getting Sam’s jeans and boxers down around his upper thighs, and _fuck_. Now he’s as good as naked. And what’s worse is he’s having a hard time caring, especially when Luke is suddenly dropping down to his knees in front of him, mouth catching long the line of his hips and hands sliding around his ass-

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam barely manages to breath, because _jesus_ the sight of him like _that_ , hair shoved around, lips loose, staring back up at him, blue sharp through his eyes clouded with lust, jean-clad knees rough on the boards underneath. And Sam’s own leaking cock _that_ close-

Luke stares up at him looking far too innocent for something that smug. “What?”

“Just,” Sam breathes, “This is starting to feel a little one sided.”

Luke’s eyes go wide and soft for half a second a way that make Sam’s stomach flip over in a way it _definitely_ shouldn’t. But then the smug smile is back on Luke’s stubbled cheeks and the warm lust floods everything else out of Sam’s guts.

“I like it one sided.” Luke says simply. He let’s his tongue drift once over the end of Sam’s cock and suddenly Sam’s head is falling back against the wall with a gasp.

There’s a short huff of laughter. “Apparently so do you.”

And it’s just that - just the way his tone catches in that smug, knowing way on the edges that has Sam gripping tight into his hair and unapologetically tugging him home.

Luke’s mouth shoves down the length of him, wet and hot and _perfect_ and Sam is fucking _whining_ against the feeling of it. It’s good. It’s beyond good. It’s so good it’s horrible, because right here, pressed against this wall with the smell of the ocean just barely there, he’s not sure how he’s ever going to live without it.

It’s like everything else about him, hunger and care all at once, demanding and desperate and yet so unconcerned and lacking conscious it almost hurts. 

Sam’s whole body sighs against the press of it and he almost feels Luke moan against him as Sam lets his muscles relax and adjust, just letting everything wash over him. It’s all slide and roll and he can feel his hips urging forward in little circles and Luke’s hands are tightening, sliding from around his ass to his hip and pushing him back. 

Wait - not hands. Hand.

Sam manages to pull his eyes open and glance down and _fuck_ he should not be finding that as completely and utterly devastating as he does.

Luke has one hand tight on Sam’s hip, and the other, fuck, the other is thumbing open the buttons on his jeans and urging his own cock free.

“Fuck-“ Sam’s hips jolt on their own and Luke glances up, watching as Sam’s eyes go wide and wild, hand tightening in his hair. And that seems to set something off because suddenly Luke’s got a hand wrapped firmly around himself and he’s tugging down, groaning around the weight of Sam’s in his mouth.

“Damn it-“ Sam gasps, eyes fluttering, and he’s suddenly knocking his hips forward faster, and Luke seems too distracted by his own actions to care about holding him still anymore.

And suddenly it’s changing, shifting from Luke shoving Sam back and setting a deft rough pace to Luke leaning back on his heels, giving in completely and Sam doesn’t even think, he just knits a hand in his hair and lets his mind shut off, hips hammering home again and again. Luke’s own hand is ratcheting to match his pace, short tight groans slipping out around Sam’s cock but that just makes his voice thrum around Sam and he’s moving even faster.

_Fuck_ he’s close. Honestly, it’s impossible that he’s held on this long. He looks down, Luke’s eyes lock onto his and Sam lets one hand slip out of his hair, slide down his jaw and trace the wet outline of his lips wrapped around him.

He’s done. He’s done before he even realizes it. The orgasm catches him all at once and he’s gritting his teeth sharply before letting out a shocked gasp and feeling the first pulse of his climax spill free. He catches himself on Luke’s shoulder roughly, trying hard not to shudder out of his grasp while the rest of it floods through his system.

Just on the edge of everything he can feel Luke’s lips falling wide, shocked, an empty gasp of a moan.

It takes a few moments longer than last time to come back to the world. And it isn’t even Sam that gets there first. Luke pulls away, easing Sam back against the wall gently and pushing him carefully back into place.

Things are hazy, but they’re getting clearer. Luke’s standing now, standing and looking at him. Sam looks back.

And then he leans in and Sam waits. He waits for the rough shove, the hard hands, the smug smile. But there’s none of that.

Luke’s hands slide gently. One slips against his waist. The other eases into his hair. He holds. Inches away, breathing steadily. And then, he kisses him.

It’s soft, and slow, and _exactly_ what they don’t do.

And Sam actually lets him. For a second, and then another, and then the clarity snaps back around them.

Sam gets two hands firmly on his shoulders and shoves him back, panic rushing into his stomach in one solid wave.

“What the fuck?” He snaps.

Luke watches him carefully and something in his eyes seems almost hurt. But it’s only a second and then he’s moving away casually, snatching Sam’s shirt off the ground and tossing it over to him. 

Sam scrambles to catch it and just manages, staring as Luke tugs on his own while he walks away.

 

The place they’re in is small, close, comfortable. Dean’s never really been one for coffee shops, he’s far more of a bar guy, but he can see the appeal. It’s almost a more public way to be isolated, sitting with your own tasks and your own world, knowing everyone else has theirs, feeling the company yet knowing it’s not going to demand shit from you.

He closes his eyes with a sigh and leans back into the squishy armchair he’s planted in and after a day of sun and an evening of loading it’s practically sinful, like a big leather hug, and shit, he really is a little over tired.

“I got hot chocolate,” Cas says, suddenly there in front of him, placing two steaming mugs of dark goodness down on the small table. “I hope that’s alright. I know it’s a bit warm for it but it’s my favorite.”

“Totally alright.” Dean grins, sitting up and snatching his, almost overwhelmed to see whipped cream and drilled caramel over the top. “Freakin’ awesome.”

“It’s time for dessert anyways I suppose,” Cas adds, settling neatly into the seat opposite of him. “To be honest I’m a little exhausted. The beach always makes me more tired than three shows in a row, not sure why.”

“I know what you mean.” Dean stretches, “All that sun and sand and ocean, can really knock a guy out.”

Cas hums, huddling over his cocoa as if it’s 50 degrees colder outside and taking a small sip.

“So, Luke’s tattoo’s pretty hardcore,” Dean observes.

Cas hums agreement, focusing intently on the cocoa.

“You have anything like that?” Dean asks.

“Gabriel has a Jigglypuff.”

Dean laughs, “Yeah, not what I asked."

“I know,” Cas smirks.

He leans back and Dean can’t help taking him in for a moment.

He’s still wearing the same dark jeans and canvas sneakers from the show but he’s changed out of the work-shirt and tie he normally wears on stage and has on one of the shirts they were selling that night instead, a dark blue one with white navy wings across the front and a lone figure standing behind them looking up at a noose, the band name displayed in ornamental font above it all. His hair’s a mess as usual, eyes tired and body loose and relaxed as he leans back in the chair. He’d really look like a fucking GQ cover if it wasn’t for—

Dean smiles. “Uh, Cas.”

Cas looks up.

“You’ve got, um- something there,“ Dean tries gesturing at his face awkwardly.

“Oh!” Cas says, wiping blindly at his face and totally missing the blotch of whipped cream he got on the sharp tip of his nose when he took his second sip of cocoa. 

Dean’s chuckling now despite himself and Cas gives him a despairing look.

“God, you’re so damn cute.” Dean thinks.

No. Wait. Not thinks. Says.

Out loud.

Holy fuck.

Dean feels his stomach drop out of him all at once, like a fucking eagle has swooped into the cafe, got his guts in two talons and ripped back out the window behind them. And he has to say something, he has to make it better _now_ \- something, anything, laugh it off, add to the comment, anything to make it a joke, _intentional_ at least instead of _exactly_ what it was. But Cas is staring at him with his cheeks going pink and these wide surprised eyes and this totally frozen expression and he still _has the fucking whipped cream on his nose._

“Jesus, here-“ Dean grumbles, reaching over quickly and running his thumb over the mess, swiping it away and hopefully the moment with it.

Which would have been fine. Totally fine. If Cas hadn’t reached up and grabbed his hand.

Well… not really grabbed. Just… sort of… held. Gently. But very, _very_ much there. 

His palm fits right under Dean’s fingers, not knitting between his but just pressing against the back of his knuckles. 

And suddenly Dean can’t move.

Cas’ is staring back at him with those stupid eyes, huge and concerned and something else all at once, and he wants to look at them, he really _really_ does but for some totally, unforgivable idiotic reason his gaze is drifting down to Cas’ mouth. 

Cas wets his lips once.

Dean sits back very quickly. So quickly he almost spills his cocoa all over his lap, but manages to get a handle on it just in time, swearing under his breath and then attempting to laugh it off but the sound comes out a little too broken to be totally passable as anything casual.

Cas has leaned back too, but his eyes are still pretty wide and he’s got that strange concerned look again.

“Gone?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Dean clears his throat. “All set.”

Cas just nods, taking another sip of coca, careful this time not to get his nose in the top.

Dean rolls his eyes at himself, internally swearing over and over at what a complete dick he is and shit, he has to make up for this quickly before it gets even more awkward.

“So,” Dean tries. “Our brother’s are probably fucking.”

What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Shit, I mean—“ He scrambles.

But Cas is laughing into his cocoa and grinning like he think it’s hilarious so Dean smiles back and let’s some of that nasty twisted stomach feeling slip away.

“I think that’s likely.” Cas raises an eyebrow. “Surprising though.”

“What, seriously?” Dean asks, “I thought Luke sort of had a reputation for reeling that sort of thing in.”

“He does,” Cas says, “But Sam isn’t exactly ‘his type’.”

Dean laughs, “What, he doesn’t like clumsy assholes who may or may not make a noise when they fall in the forest and no one’s around to hear?”

Cas chuckles. “Let’s just say his type is normally a bit more adoring.”

“Oh, so what, ego-trips?”

“To put it kindly.” Cas says. “He enjoys adoration, he’s just a bit narcissistic incase you haven’t noticed. He’s usually in the habit of picking up devoted followers not snipping critiques.”

Dean leans back, “Huh.”

“Mmm,” Cas agrees. “Gabriel and I are actually becoming slightly concerned.”

“About what?”

“About him,” Cas says, “That he might actually be developing _‘feelings’_ , and making up for years of abstinence from them.”

Dean laughs. “Jesus christ.”

“He’s an unforgivable ass.” Cas says and then suddenly he’s looking at Dean with firm eyes, “But I don’t want him to become injured.”

Dean stares. “Are you… giving me a brother speech?”

Cas smirks, “Maybe. Is it threatening?”

Dean grins, “Oh definitely. Terrifying.”

Cas kicks at Dean’s shins a bit from where he’s sitting, only it’s not hard enough to be guy-friendly, and almost teasing enough to be flirty. Dean takes a massive gulp of cocoa.

“I’m not surprised you know,” Dean says, “Music man, weird powers.”

Cas stretches relaxing back onto one hand against the armrest, “Is that right?”

“Definitely.” Dean confirms. “I mean it touches something, when I hear you guys play it’s-“

Too close. Abort. _Abort._

“It’s awesome.” He settles.

Cas eyes him carefully. “You play.”

“That might be an exaggeration,” Dean insists.

“No, you’ve been playing for sometime,” Cas says gently. “I’d like to hear you sometime. If that’s not… I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Dean’s mouth opens without his permission. “I’d like that.”

Cas looks up.

“You, hearing, I mean.” Dean says. 

Cas smiles. “Me too.”

Dean leans back, trying to pretend his stomach isn’t full of something as stupid or girly as butterflies. Bees. Stomach of bees. Much more manly.

“Wait—” He suddenly catches. “Gabriel has a jigglypuff tattoo? Where?”

Cas sighs, “You don’t want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend Breya was BETA-ing for me this week and for the rest of the story and wow I really wish I could have left her notes for all of you to see (because holy shit I was laughing so hard) but the best one is probably the idea that Becky is the waving girl at the beach. So I'm just going to pretend that was my idea all along. It's Becky.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She continues to eye him. “No, seriously, where the fuck did he come from? Did he escape from a football soap opera? Shouldn’t he be crying over his high-school girlfriend’s grave somewhere with The Fray playing in the background?”_  
> 
> _Luke snorts out a laugh._
> 
> _“Hey!” Sam snaps._
> 
> _“What?” Luke simply shrugs. “You’re very Americana.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: if you hate Meg this chapter, you probably hate me, because it I hadn't seen old friends in years I'd act in the exact same way. And if I saw the Winchester, I'd probably tease the shit out of them. Also, please refrain from calling her a bitch in the comments. It makes my days a little easier. Thanks.

Boston always feels like it’s ready to punch something in the face, and the crowd packed tight around them really isn’t doing much to change that image. 

Sam’s already had to break up two brawls, or at least have Dean help him shove the guys out the door and onto the street. They ended up getting a few knocks in the process: Dean getting a cut on his lip when the guy with the Ortiz jersey and the buzz cut shoved him off and ended up slamming his face into the corner of a door, and Sam ended up with a swelled up cheekbone after buzz-cut’s friend with the shamrock tattooed on his neck got an elbow in his face. But they got them out eventually, and while they probably should be bitterly sitting backstage somewhere with icepacks, for some stupid reason they’re just cheering their fucking heads off, adrenaline pumping almost as fast as the music.

The truth is Dean was almost beaming when the guys started throwing punches and he got a chance to knock one of them flat out of his ass on the pavement outside. If Sam hadn’t caught his shoulder he might have followed them right out to finish the cleanup but he came back eventually. It was harder than Sam wants to admit to make himself step back. He hadn’t gotten close to a fight in years and while it was never something he sought out, there was no denying something turned on inside his skull whenever fists started flying. Probably too many nights watching Bruce Lee with Dean and then watching him hustle pool games, reaping the rewards and the likely punishments in the aftermath all through high school.

Plus, he’s not totally convinced that the music wasn’t almost entirely to blame.

The guys seemed to agree with the feel of the city, or at least let themselves fall victim to it, because the sound turned raw and rough, banging out with a violence and heat that’s different from any of the shows so far. It’s gone salty and raw-knuckled and Sam can’t deny that it’s getting under his skin in whole new ways, urging his blood up and making the sore spot on his his cheekbone feel like an invitation to get into more trouble than he really should.

He glances over at Dean and can tell instantly that he’s right on the same page, whooping and standing up on the railing, swollen lip red against his white teeth as he grins and his eyes go all wide and crazy.

All the energy, all the pulse, it’s a welcome relief after the night he’s had. This is how he’s supposed to feel, blood pumping, adrenaline racing, watching Luke up on that stage and thinking of all the way’s he’s going to get that out of his system in less than three songs if he’s remembering the set list right. 

Last night had been… distracting. 

He should have crashed. Hard. Like he has since this whole thing started. Or at least, if he couldn’t sleep, it would be because images of Luke on his knees with his hair mussed and eyes hungry, mouth red and ruined and beyond hot were bouncing around his skull. Because that’s what this has been about, that’s what it’s _still_ about: sex, and heat, and yeah, okay, maybe a not so healthy amount of rage, which is maybe something he’s always been looking for a way to work out. 

It’s _never_ been about a mouth pushing against his so carefully and so full of _something_ that it hurts in a whole new way. It’s never been about hands sliding up into his hair and holding him like they just want to do that, just hold on, without force and without demand, just presence, for as long as they can. It’s never been about those things. It’s not allowed to be, and Sam is certainly not allowed to stay up all night, tossing over the memory of a stupid kiss when there are far, far better things to be sleepless over.

Fuck it. That’s yesterday. He’s past his sleepless night. This is today and he’s already starved for exactly what he knows is going to come next. He’s feeling his pulse catch as he watches Luke’s wrist snap against the rough sound of the song, his voice gone hard on the feel of the city and the pulsing energy of the crowd. If Sam’s feeling the city this strong from where he is, he can’t imagine what the sense of all that tight knit power must be like for Luke, up there, throwing it around like gasoline on a fire and feeling the heat of the flames as they burst up in his face.

Sam’s shamelessly counting down the songs and not even giving a fuck about the knowing look Dean is giving him when he shoves the guy next to them out of the way to get to the theater door that leads backstage as the crowd screams out their support for the final song, the theater practically shakes against the sound of it.

The steps are nonexistence as he flies up them, eyes glancing around already, looking for that darting motion, that obscured figure, hands itching to reach out, snatch, and tug close. Some stupid part of his brain won’t stop remembering, won’t stop playing that kiss over and over and over again and he grits his teeth against that, focusing instead on the tight low heat in his stomach and the way his cock is already twitching hard against his jeans.

He’s not thinking about that kiss. He’s not wondering if it’s going to happen again. He’s not worried that if it does he won’t quite be able to stop it this time.

He turns a corner and suddenly smashes into another body. His breath catches in his chest and his hands move on their own to snatch at the shoulders and spin him around. They stop themselves just in time. Because the body is way smaller and shorter than it’s supposed to be. And it’s not short blonde hair, it’s long dark hair. And it’s not a he. It’s a she.

Sam’s so shocked he can’t help taking her in quickly. She’s pretty. Round face. Those pursed circle shaped lips you see on 50’s pinups. Arches brows. Pale. Or maybe that’s just because her hair’s so dark she only seems pale. 

She has her arms crossed in front of her chest casually, stretching her leather jacket on her shoulders.

“Um-“ Sam tries, attempting to swallow the dry anticipation out of his throat and convince his boner to calm down for five seconds so he can deal with this like a responsible employee. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“Is that right?” The girl smirks, and it really is a smirk. If there were smirk-offs he’s pretty sure that one would walk away with 10K in prize money and an ironic trophy. “You gonna do something about it, legs?”

Her voice has this daring drawl to it and her eyes are slanting in a taunting conceited way that’s really making him want to wipe the expression off.

“Yeah, I might,” He says firmly. “So, why don’t you save me the trouble?”

“Thing is,” She grins, “I think you’re underestimating just how much trouble I might be.”

“Look-“ Sam snaps.

“Sam?” A voice sounds behind them.

He turns. Luke’s giving him a look like he’s been wandering in a desert for weeks and Sam’s the only oasis that hasn’t rippled away into nonexistence.

“So what?” The drawly female voice sounds, “you get your bouncers at Abercrombie wholesale now?” 

Luke’s face shifts in two seconds. Suddenly, he’s shouldering his way past Sam without even a glance, a grin flooding his face full force, and his hands wrapping around the girl’s waist.

Sam can’t do much of anything but stand there, gaping, as Luke picks her up all at once and spins her around as she laughs and holds on, wrapping her legs around his waist and yelling at him to knock it off.

The lust in Sam’s stomach is starting to sink like a cement block. 

“Um..” He tries.

They don’t seem to hear him. They don’t even seem to realize he’s still standing there.

Luke plops her back down on her sharp black heels and gives her a big loud kiss on the cheek that has her shoving his face away. “Hey! Fuck off! You’re still all sticky and smell like a horny lion.”

“You love it,” He grins, pushing her hair back into place.

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. She’s still smiling.

The feeling in Sam’s stomach is shifting, hardening into something else he’s insisting he doesn’t recognize.

“Are you still at MIT?” Luke asks.

“Fuck no,” She says, “Private security consulting. Better pay. Less conscious. Every girl’s dream.”

“Aw,” Luke sighs, “My little Beelzebub.”

“That’s not… really your name?” Sam asks, still trying to tell his tightening fists to _calm the fuck down._

They look at him with sudden identical, pitying expression on their faces, and the feeling in Sam’s stomach get’s impossibly worse.

“Sam, this is Meg,” Luke says. “Meg, Sam.”

Meg continues to eye him. “No, seriously, where the fuck did he come from? Did he escape from a football soap opera? Shouldn’t he be crying over his high-school girlfriend’s grave somewhere with The Fray playing in the background?”

Luke snorts out a laugh.

“Hey!” Sam snaps.

“What?” Luke simply shrugs. “You’re very Americana.”

Meg rolls her eyes at Sam’s scandalized look. “Hey? Where my boys?”

“Probably still in mourning from the last time you left. Or rather, still nursing their hangovers,” Luke answers.

“Damn straight.” Meg grins back. “Come on, I can’t wait to muss up our little Clarence’s everything.”

Luke chuckles and he’s leading her quickly down behind the curtains and towards the back door.

They don’t even look back.

Sam stands. Alone. Staring at the door they went through, with the sound of the crowd still mulling in the distance behind them.

 

Dean’s shouldering open the door and grunting as he swivels the amp out first and follows closely behind. The warm breeze hits him, smelling of city and summer, and he breathes it in, still trying to calm some of the violence out of his chest as he heads towards the trailer where it’s waiting in the parking space between the tour bus and the RV.

He tongues at his lip as he totes the amp over to the trailer, feeling the swell and the slight taste of copper lingering around it. If it had been any other night— but it wasn’t, and he needs to stop thinking about that. 

But jesus, it felt way too good to let his fists tighten and reflexes kick it. And yeah, maybe it wouldn’t have been quite as awesome if he hadn’t been a little more sexually frustrated these days than usual, and hadn’t woken up last night after a full HD dream of pounding Cas into a coffee shop counter. But it doesn’t matter. Getting into a fist fight when he’s supposed to be working really isn’t going to help that, ultimately it’s just going to make things worse, even if it would feel _really_ fucking good—

“Dean!”

He turns. Cas is heading across the parking lot towards him at a full run, and Dean can’t help but stare in surprise as Cas stumbles to a stop in front of him, out of breath and expression panicked.

Dean’s hurrying to set the speaking down in the trailer behind him. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

Cas is still trying to get his breath back. He shakes his head. “No - well, yes, but—“

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching over a putting a hand on his shoulder without thinking. “Breathe. Okay?”

Cas looks up at him desperately, vivid fear in his face. “I just - I wanted to explain before—“

“Hey, Cassy! Look who dragged herself out of the gutter!” Gabriel’s voice yells several yards behind them, yelping half a second later like someone’s hit him.

“Oh god,” Cas prays to his feet.

“Oi! Clarence!” A voice calls.

Cas turns with pure terror spread across his face and Dean looks with him to see Luke and Gabriel following a chick with dark hair and a shark smile directly towards them. 

The girl doesn’t even slow, just steps directly into their conversation, grabs both sides of Cas’ face and kisses him dead on the mouth.

Everything goes red. 

Dean’s about to reach out without thinking and tug her off of him when suddenly Gabriel’s hand lands on his shoulder and the blind rage shatters away like stained glass leaving just the cold hard realty and a sinking feeling of sick and fury in his stomach.

Cas is making theses anxious muffled noises but she just keeps kissing him, both hands tight in his hair and one foot popped up in a way Dean is 90% sure is meant to be satirical. She pulls back with a smack, grinning at the look of complete scandal on Cas’ face and the smear of plum lipstick she’s left on his lips.

“Mmm, still minty, huh?” She smirks.

Cas can’t seem to say anything, his face is quickly diving into a furious maroon color and he’s moving his lips like he wants to say something but just can’t quite get there.

“Oh no,” Luke sighs behind them, “Meg, you broke him.”

Cas glares at Luke like he’s going to burn his face off with his mind. “A ‘hello’ would have done just fine,” He finally mutters.

Meg punches at his shoulder. “Fine sure, but so much less fun.” 

Cas looks up at her, bemused. “It is good to see you. You should have called, told us you were coming.”

“I’ve read too many NSA reports to carry one of those things,” Meg says, watching as Cas tries to fix his hair before. She looks at Dean for the first time since they arrived, giving him a slow once over.

Dean tries to tell his fists to unclench and his teeth to stop grinding themselves down to nothing inside his cheeks, but Cas’ hair is still all fucked up from where she shoved it and he’s still staring bashfully down at the ground, even _smiling_ a little, and jesus. He just can’t.

He can feel himself glaring and doesn’t even have close to the conviction to make himself stop.

Meg eyes him with half-lidded disbelief, her mouth twitched up in the corner like it’s barely containing a laugh.

“No, seriously,” She says, “Where did you guys find the Ken Doll catalog? You should let me borrow it. I need a new ottoman.”

“Oh come on,” Gabriel grins, wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulder and tugging him over and down to his height. Dean has to focus way too hard not to punch him instantly. “Dean’s a real boy! He talks and everything.”

“Well,” She shrugs, “I have a feeling that the other one at least was packing more than an awkward smooth space.” She gives Luke a look. He tuts his tongue and her with a grin.

Cas’ engrained curtosey seems to be coming back to him. “This is Dean, Meg. He’s working with us this summer.”

“You guys don’t ‘work’ with people,” Meg says carefully, still evaluating Dean.

“Yeah, I’m really starting to realize what we were missing,” Gabriel observes, leaning back on his heels. “They carry our shit, look pretty. Best employees ever, really.”

“Gabriel,” Cas scolds.

Gabriel winks at Dean and Dean might have laughed it off if his stomach didn’t feel like World War 3 was ready to explode out of it. 

“How do you all know each other?” He manages. He’s 90% sure his teeth are still knit together but he might have played that off alright. 

Meg doesn’t seem to be fooled. She reaches out and wraps an arm around Cas’ waist, tugging him close to her side and mussing up his hair again with her free hand before snatching his chin and giving him a few inspecting turns. “Oh, we go way back.”

“Meg’s a buddy,” Gabriel says. “From the ye’ old days of busted bars and free shows for a few beers.”

“Remember we told you Cas wasn’t allowed tequila?” Luke says easily. 

Dean should be looking at him but he’s having a hard time seeing anything without wanting to punch it until it stops speaking, so he doesn’t.

Luke nods his head in Meg’s direction. “ _That_ is why Cas isn’t allowed to drink tequila.”

“Oh come on,” Meg grins, batting her eyes mockingly up at Cas. “Friends first, tequila fueled fuck fest second.”

Dean’s seeing red again. He focuses on the pain his own fingernails are doing on his palm and tries to breath it out.

“You know how it goes,” Meg says, eyeing Dean with that same contented laugh hiding in the corner of her mouth. “You never had a freaky night with a buddy after too much of the cactus juice?”

Dean can’t seem to make his mouth work. He’s almost convinced that if he tried to open it fire would explode out and engulf all of them.

“It was five years ago, Meg,” Cas says quietly. “And I wish everyone would stop bringing it up.”

Dean thinks he might be looking at him, but he can’t be sure because he sure as fuck isn’t looking at him.

“Five years and every night when I close my eyes,” She mocks, drawling whiskey voice going high and sing-song against the joke as she turns him and feigns a swoon into his arms.

Dean hears Cas laugh gently at the joke as he catches her. 

He wonders briefly how much it would really hurt to tear his ears off.

“Anyways, if it’s such ancient history why do you still have my panties you perv?” She asks.

“Gabriel has those,” Cas corrects firmly.

“What?” Gabriel shrugs. “They were there.” Meg punches his shoulder.

“Well, Captain America, how about it?” She grins. “We’re going to try and put a dent in the whiskey stores.”

Dean suddenly realizes she’s talking to him. He tries to focus.

“Want to come?” She asks. Again.

Dean clears his throat, shaking his head. “Uh, yeah, no. No thanks. You kids have fun.”

“Oh, come on Deany!” Gabriel whines, “Whiskey’s important for growing boys.”

“How about you stretch?” Meg asks.

Dean turns. Sam’s suddenly standing next to him.

“Yeah, gonna have to pass.” Sam says firmly. His voice sounds almost as tight as Dean’s throat feels. “We should finish up here, anyways.”

“Come on, Sam.” Luke grins, wrapping both arms around Meg’s shoulders and tugging her back into his chest to rest his chin on her head. “We’ll be fun. We’re always fun.”

“Next time,” Sam says firmly.

Luke shrugs.

Dean can still feel Cas staring at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Dean manages to look at him for half a second and instantly regrets it. He’s staring back at him like he’s legitimately interested, like he’s almost guilty, and seriously wants him to say yes.

“Yeah, no, you go ahead.” Dean says, forcing a firm smile on his lips. “Like Sammy said, next time.”

“Promise?” Gabriel presses.

“Sure.” Dean says tightly.

Meg sighs, “Alright, come on, let’s get our Irish on.” She turns, dragging Luke and Cas away with her with Gabriel following close behind. 

Cas glances over his shoulder once, dragging his feet slightly as if he thinks they might change his mind, but Luke simple tugs at his shoulder and faces him the right way. Meg leans over and whispers something in Luke’s ear and he’s laughing hard, shoving at her shoulder as they all disappear around the corner.

Sam and Dean are left alone, standing in the quiet of the parking lot, watching the group’s shadows slip away behind the corner to follow them.

“Wow.” Sam says finally.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees.

“I… don’t like her.” Sam says. “At all.”

“Yeah.” Dean says. Again. He’s having a hard time managing more than that.

They stay silent for a moment, listening to the distant echo of Luke and Meg cackling probably a street over at this point.

“Want to get drunk and bitch about it?” Sam asks.

Dean uncrosses his arms, heading firmly in the opposite direction. “Fuck, yes.”

 

Sam’s not sure he’s ever hated anyone quite this fast. Well… anyone beside’s Luke. But this is different. Totally different.

He’s disliked her when she ruined his chance of getting off that night with her stupid smart-ass comments, busting in _exactly_ at the worst possible time. He’d started to loathe her when he woke up at 9am to the sound of them _just_ coming back to the tour bus, stumbling over each other and laughing like fucking hyenas, making his hung over skull insist that he was definitely going to have to throw up. And that was her fault too, he wouldn’t have had to get so immensely drunk if she hadn’t busted in and ruined his evening.

But he really started to hate her when, instead of staying in Boston, she’d snuck up behind him and Dean three hours ago during the show they’d only just finished setting up in _Montreal_ and hadn’t left the entire fucking time. She leaned against the railing and tried to make conversation, which was pretty much just being an asshole and drinking twice what they were. Sam was trying to focus on the music, like he always did, like he really, _really_ needed to after last night, but it was sort of hard with _her_ standing right between him and Dean like she didn’t give a single fuck how much they didn’t want her there. Hell, she seemed to _love_ how much they didn’t want her there. 

Sam was really starting to wonder how the hell she was even allowed to cross borders anyways, but didn’t get a chance to ask because before they knew it the show was over and she was dragging them backstage after her to meet the guys.

And Sam really _really_ would not have “promised” to go out the next night if he’d had any suspicion that she was _still_ going to be there. But apparently they did promise. And Gabriel didn’t seem to have any problem reminding them of that. So, hardly half an hour after the show was done they’re wandering off the street, three drinks down already, pushing into some crowded club in the French Quarter.

It’s been forever since Sam has been in Montreal, and he _really_ should be taking the time to enjoy it more, but for some maybe not so elusive reason, everything is irritating him tonight. The French that he’s catching on every street corners, the strange muddled turning of the streets, the smell of steak and cheese and beer drifting out of the bistros that sit huddled on the corners. 

But that’s stupid. He’s here, in a city he loves, and the fact that there’s a harpy tagging along, making fun of his hair and giving Dean flat tires every other block, really shouldn’t ruin this for him. Anyways, that’s exactly what would make her happy, isn’t it? Enjoying himself and acting like he couldn’t care less she was there would show her, wouldn’t it? Or, maybe she seriously just didn’t give a fuck...

He’s starting to suspect it’s the later as they elbow their way through the pressing crowds of the club, all blasting music and wriggling bodies and flashing lights, and apparently being rockstars comes with a few benefits because they’re sliding their way into a set aside booth in a corner and away from the pressing bodies of the rest of the patrons.

Gabriel and Luke are apparently already a few drinks down, laughing hysterically and grabbing a waitress’ attention for more. Sam’s really starting to wonder if Meg even gets drunk at all because she’s simply leaning back evaluating the world around them with the same look of quietly perceived irony she’s had since she got there and is at least six drinks deep.

Cas is squeezing into the seat next to Dean carefully, glancing at him as he does. Whatever he sees apparently isn’t all that satisfying and Sam can’t say he’s surprised. Dean’s glaring at everything like he wants to set it on fire. When his drink hits the table he drains it in one slug and hands it right back to the waitress.

“Easy tiger,” Meg grins. “We’ve got all night.”

“Yeah and quit mopping,” Gabriel says, elbowing him in the ribs. “No one likes a negative Nancy. I mean come on! Montreal! Beers! Babes! What’s with the face?” 

“Nothing,” Dean huffs.

“Maybe he didn’t like the show,” Meg tries.

“Show was fine,” Dean says sharply.

A body suddenly shoves against Sam’s shoulder and he turns to tell whoever it is to fuck off, but then Luke’s pushing closer and sliding into the seat next to him. 

“What do you think Sam? Was the show less than pleasing?”

His voice is rough with whiskey. He smells like at least three other kinds of booze and everything else that normally comes along with him, well, normal except for that black jasmine perfume she wears hanging off his clothes. Sam’s really starting to think he’s developing a pavlovian response to it because his stomach is twisting already.

“I don’t know,” Sam says finally, scooting a little closer to Gabriel and out of Luke’s space. “I didn’t hear a lot of it.”

Luke doesn’t seem to give a shit, just pushing closer. He puts a hand on Sam’s thigh under the table, dragging the ends of his fingers higher. Sam can feel his body shudder quickly in response, tempted to ease into it, but he doesn’t let himself, snatching Luke’s wrist and shoving it off.

“So, Sammy,” Meg starts.

“Don’t call me that.”

“So, Samantha.” Meg continues, “Lukey tells me you’re a little lawyer.”

“Not yet,” Sam corrects.

“Aspiring though?” Meg asks.

“Next year,” Sam says. That feels stranger than it should coming out of his mouth. 

He’s going to finish next year. There’s a year, coming up, each day he’s getting closer to it, why the hell hasn’t he realized that before? And suddenly that’s sinking down over him. What the hell did he think this was, some timeless world that didn’t touch his own? No. It was the same world. The same exact fucking one, and his professors are going to be asking him in just a few weeks how his summer was and what they can recommend to their firms and _jesus_. What the fuck was he doing here?

“Well, there certainly aren’t enough lawyers,” Meg says with impressive mock sincerity.

“Maybe there just aren’t enough good ones.”

It takes Sam half a minute to realize he’s not the one who said it. He turns in shock. Luke isn’t even looking at him, just leaning on his hand, as if something that _out of nowhere_ didn’t just slip out of his mouth.

“What?” Sam asks, still staring.

“Well, if there were more individuals with an untarnished sense of integrity who did not seek to impose their own morals on others like a blinding torch of justice, maybe the implications of the field wouldn’t be so distasteful.”

“You’re kidding right?” Meg laughs. “The good ones are the worst part of it. We have to swat a suit out the door pretty much every other day.” She takes a hearty sip of whiskey. “Privacy concerns my ass.”

Sam can’t help it. “Excuse me?”

“People are just so pathetic,” Meg continues without even flinching, “They’re so terrified, quaking in their little suburban lives, and then when you offer them any sound measures of protection they act like you’re ripping their hearts out. Give me a fucking break.”

“Hold on,” Sam says, almost smiling in disbelief as he turns. “You’re telling me that you think unnecessary national security measures should take president over right to privacy?”

“There’s no _‘right’_ to anything when it comes to security.” Meg says with a laugh. “If they want to be protected they should let the people who know what they’re fucking doing make the calls. If they don’t, then don’t come sobbing up the memorial steps when that solution literally explodes in your face.”

“Meg,” Gabriel tuts, “Have you been talking to the CIA recruiters again?”

“Please,” Meg rolls her eyes, “CIA doesn’t break seven figures for at least the first ten years.”

“Jesus,” Sam stares. “You’re just a horrible person. You seriously are.”

“Why?” Meg asks with a smile. “Because I think that Joe the Plumber’s concerns about his sexy texts with babysitter Lolita leaking on the news is worth sacrificing national security?”

“Oh, yeah, fine, so I guess we should just all move back into East Germany and solve all our issues.”

“Would certainly keep things simple.” Meg grins.

“Meg,” Luke scolds suddenly. “That’s enough.”

And Sam’s really fucking close to snapping around and yelling right in his face because he _really_ doesn’t need him using that protective tone on him, like Sam can’t handle his own battle, like he has _any_ right at all to fight them for him.

“Come on,” Meg laughs in Luke’s direction, “You can’t blame me. He’s so easy!”

“She’s just winding you up, Sammy.” Dean says, glaring in her direction.

Cas is staring down into his drink like he’s never been more uncomfortable in his life. Gabriel’s leaning back in his seat like he’s in fucking heaven.

“Fine,” Sam says, putting his hands down on the table, “Fine, sorry if I actually care about what I do. Sorry if it matters to me, and it’s not just docking around with music, and getting wasted, and passing out on beaches and in the back of buses and then doing it all over again. I’m sorry if I actually want to do something with myself that matters.” He stands up suddenly. “And you know what? I’m sorry I wasted my time.”

“Sam,” Cas says with sudden vivid concern. Sam ignores him, shoving his way out on Gabriel’s side.

“Sammy, hey, come on-“ Dean starts, raising as if he’s going to follow him, but Sam simply glares at him and he sits back down, a hurt expression on his face.

Sam doesn’t care, he’s not looking back. He’s shouldering his way through the crowd. He’s suddenly sick at all of it, any of it, they people crammed in so tight they can hardly move, the bar tenders just continuing to slide drinks over the counter, the music jamming out of the speakers so loud he can’t hear anything.

A firm hand catches his wrist and tugs him, and to his own surprise he lets it. He follows the pull until he’s spun around a corner and the noise and the crowd is just thin enough to hear and move properly.

Luke’s staring back at him with concern. “Where were you tonight?”

Sam laughs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Seriously?”

Luke’s suddenly closer. “Yes. Seriously.”

Sam looks back at him, stomach going hard under him. “Where were you yesterday?”

Luke frowns. “She’s my friend Sam. We haven’t seen her in years. I wanted to see her. Is that so unreasonable?”

And Sam’s insides are squirming because no, it’s totally, not, but _jesus_. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“She’s a fucking _demon_.” Sam insists. “She’s selfish and has _no_ morals and probably wouldn’t even stop if she hit someone’s dog for christ’s sake!”

Luke shrugs. “She stopped…. eventually.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“She’s also strong, driven, and immutable.” Luke continues. “Sassy. Actually she’s a lot like you in her own way. Except she’s nice to me.”

“Oh yeah, very nice.” Sam snaps. 

Luke squints into him and then suddenly his eyes widen. “You’re jealous.”

_God, yes._

“Fuck off,” Sam says firmly.

Luke doesn’t say anything, just sort of stares at him quietly, eyes so sharp Sam can’t keep looking at them, tugging his own away.

But apparently that’s not acceptable, because there’s a hand on his chin, turning him half and inch and then Luke’s kissing him.

It’s like it was before. Slow. Careful. Possessive. And Sam can’t help melting into it, letting himself open just enough, and then reality clatters back in around him.

He catches Luke’s shoulders and shoves him off with a gasp. “What the fuck is that?”

Luke’s looking at him very strangely. “You know what that is.”

“No,” Sam says, voice as firm as he can get it. “I don’t. Because that’s not what we do.”

“I want it do be what we do.” Luke says.

“That’s not what I said. That’s not the rules.” Sam says.

Luke steps closer. “The rules are stupid.”

“Backstage.” Sam says, gripping at anything. “Backstage. After the shows.”

“What happens when there are no more shows?” Luke asks suddenly.

Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that. If he’s being totally honest he had forgotten until fifteen minute ago that the shows would ever end. 

“Sam?”

“Then I go home,” Sam says. He wishes his voice didn’t sound so uneasy.

Luke moves closer. “The rules are stupid,” He repeats. “I want more of you than that. I want you now, and then. I want you when I’m too tired to move and when I’m just starting to remember the world exists. I’ve never wanted anything quite like I want you, Sam. I like you.”

“Yeah well, I don’t like you.” Sam says firmly.

And then Luke’s smiling. “Thing is, you really do.”

“Not like that,” Sam insist. “Not _at all_ like that.”

“Why not?”

“Jesus,” Sam swears, “It’s not - because you’re an asshole!”

“I think you actually are quite taken with the fact that I’m an asshole,” Luke observes casually. “Mm, is it something else?”

“Let’s see,” Sam tallies, “the arrogance, the need for praise, the whole rockstar bullshit scene, just a few guesses.”

“Would you like me if I was someone else?” Luke asks, still smiling. “What if I was one those lawyers who’s closings you read at school, some corporate attorney with a flare for moralistic sentiment? Would you ‘like’ me then?”

“Fuck off,” Sam shoves.

“Or what if we were trapped in the middle of nowhere together, with only us and the wild for company, would I maybe sway you over in my direction?”

“No.” Sam says firmly. “And you know why? Because you’re a dick. You’ve always been a dick. Nothing’s changed. I don’t like you. I won’t.”

“Then why,” Luke starts, setting closer, “do your eyes light up like that when I’m doing exactly what you’re supposed to hate so much?”

“I think your confusing me with the reflection of your own ego,” Sam snaps.

“Mmm, I don’t think so. I’ve seen my own ego for quite a long time now. But you’re something else, entirely. You make me feel alive in a whole new way, Sam. It’s quite surprising actually. And the thing is, I do the same thing for you. And it’s not just sex. It’s something else.”

Sam turns to walk away. “I’m not talking about this.”

Luke grabs his shoulder and shoves him back firmly. “Well, I am.”

Sam tries to shrug him off, feeling the frustration in his stomach flare into anger. “What? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to admit, that you’ve never had anything like this, and that matters.” Luke’s hand is tightening on his shoulder hard enough that he could wince.

“Of course. It’s different. You’re a guy.” Sam snarls.

“No.” Luke pushes. “It’s more than that.” Something desperate is flaring behind the cold blue of his eyes.

“No!” Sam suddenly shoves him off. “No, it’s not.”

Luke stares, face full of concern and anger and it all just crashes together into Sam’s chest, boiling against his own frustration and burning into something unfamiliar and furious.

“What?” Sam feels himself laugh coldly. “You want me to say that this is something, that this is ‘special’? Jesus, and you were calling me naive.”

God, it’s horrible. It’s weighs in his stomach and tastes wretched on his tongue and all of that is nothing compared to what it’s doing to the face in front of his, but he can’t seem to stop. Maybe because if he keeps going long enough he’ll convince himself it’s true.

“It’s not different,” Sam says. “It’s a summer. I wanted to try something. I wanted to be reckless and thoughtless just once. And I was. And it was fun, and that’s it.”

Something is emptying behind Luke’s eyes, but Sam can’t seem to stop.

“And when it’s over: it’s over. I’ll go back to my life, _my_ life, with people who I want in it and things that actually matter.”

Luke’s staring at him. Sam knows he must be, even if he can’t seem to return the favor. His chest feels like it’s on fire and his throat is tight and he doesn’t know why but some part of his brain is insisting that now he’s never ever going to be kissed like that again. Ever again. And it’s his own fault.

“Ah.” It’s all he says. It’s hardly even a word, more of a breath, and Luke’s gone.

Sam wants to sink against the wall, fall back until he hits it and then slip down to the floor and never ever get up again. 

But no. He’s not sad. He’s angry. Angry is easier. Angry feels like fire rather than a sinking emptiness in his stomach. So, he pushes off the wall, and shoves his way out until he can feel air in his lungs and cement under his feet.

 

God. He should not have gotten this drunk. How the fuck did this happen?

Meg lets out a snort at something Gabriel says, and oh yeah, that’s right. That’s how.

Dean’s fist is tightening around his glass. He really _really_ shouldn’t drink it. He’s had eight already. He’s not even sure how he keeps doing it, but it’s definitely got something to do with having zero interest in speaking to _her_ and Cas looking at him like a kicked puppy. Probably has to do with not wanting to open his mouth, but also feeling like an asshole just sitting there. And then she laughs, and his fist tightens, and he remembers the glass in it, and that his mouth has nothing better to do. And, right… that’s probably how he’s managed to drink eight. At least he thinks it’s eight…

“So,” Meg says, suddenly turning in his direction. “What’s your deal? You like their shitty music enough to hang around all summer?”

“Yeah.” Dean says, taking another sip without thinking. “That’s right.”

“What? So you’re their groupie?” 

Gabriel’s laughing on her other side. Dean finds himself grinding his teeth.

“Roadie.”

“Oh, right, I always forget which one of those is which.” Meg says. “They sound so similar. What’s the difference again, one person picks up the band’s shit the other one worships it? Sounds like a barrel of fun.”

Dean doesn’t answer her.

“Where the fuck did Sam go?” Gabriel asks suddenly, sitting up and scanning the crowd.

“I hope he didn’t get his hair caught in the hand dryer.” Meg says.

Suddenly someone stumbles into their table, knocking the drinks left on it right over. Dean’s about to jump to his feet, way too ready to deck someone for no reason. He stops. It’s Luke.

“Bored.” He slurs.

He’s leaning a bit to one side and his gaze is definitely heavier than usual. His hand seems to have an usually hard time finding his own pocket.

Meg stares at him. “Did you have to drink your way here?”

Luke rolls his eyes, turning and nodding his head towards the door. “Bored. Let’s go.”

“Hey!” Gabriel protests. “I’ve still got half a drink here.”

Luke reaches over, takes it, and drains it. “Now you don’t.”

Gabriel frowns. 

“Come on. There’s a pool. I saw a pool.” Luke slurs.

“What? The one at the hotel next to the lot we parked the bus in?”

“No. The one on the fucking sky.” Luke says.

“What?”

“What?”

“Okkkayy.” Gabriel sighs.

And jesus. Dean’s not sure he’s ever seen him this drunk. But honestly, he feels pretty fucking drunk himself, so maybe he’s not in the best place to judge.

“There’s a fence around that pool.” Castiel says.

“You’re a fence around a pool.” Luke stumbles. “I want to swim. Let’s go.”

He turns a little too quickly and looses his balance, but suddenly Meg’s standing and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Alright, let’s go swimming champ.”

Gabriel leans back with a pout. “I don’t want to swim.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Meg snaps, eyeing Luke’s other side meaningfully.

Gabriel sighs and stands up with a groan. “Coming Cas?”

Cas looks up at them and then over at Dean. “Do you want to come?”

“You guys go. I’ll catch up,” Dean lies.

Cas looks at him with concern. “Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean suddenly snaps without meaning to. “I said go, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

Cas looks like he’s very much going to worry about it, so Dean looks away and takes another sip. It doesn’t last long because Meg’s reaching down and grabbing Cas’ shoulder, pulling him up to his feet.

“Come on Clarence. Let him mope.”

Cas frowns like it’s the last thing he wants to do and maybe Dean should turn, tell him he’s sorry, tell him he really doesn’t want him to go. He wants to go get hot chocolate and wipe the whipped cream off his face and listen to him laugh. But he doesn’t do that. He just glares at the floor, and before he realizes it they’re gone.

He finishes his drink as slowly as he can, then pushes his way out of the club and back onto the street. 

Dean takes the long way back, passing off a stumbling drunk as a slow meander down the thin streets. He keeps forgetting that they’re actually in Canada, but then someone passes by spilling French and jesus that just makes the whole thing fucking perfect. He can’t even wander into a bar and get a proper drink since they don’t carry his brands. And sure, he can see how people might think it’s nice, with the close streets that go cobblestone around some corners, and the tight buildings, not too many floors and all different, squished up together with balconies covered in potted plants and alleys filled with bright graffiti and hockey stickers. But he’s just really not in the frame of mind to appreciate much of anything right now, let alone something so fucking Canadian.

It keeps playing over and over in his mind for the past twenty-four hours: her walking up to them, turning him around, the way her hands had tightened in his hair, the color her lipstick left on his face. He should be forgetting, moving on but somehow each time there’s more details, like how Cas had only stumbled back a few inches, hands going up on either side but not shoving her away, or how she’s popped her heel like it was just that fucking hilarious, the sharp point making a small scraping noise on the asphalt under them.

Replaying that is not helping anything, and getting more pissed when he’s this drunk is really just the definition of fucking stupid. He’s lucky he didn’t get lost, all these streets knitted together like a shitty sweater, all gaps and strange loops, but finally he’s looking at the hulking shape of the bus behind the theater, walking by the posters slapped on the scaffolding leading up to the place. He’s not looking at them, but he feels Cas’ quiet stare watching him out of each one with each fucking step nonetheless. 

Eventually, he turns around the chain link fence surrounding the lot, catching the cool metal under his fingers to keep from stumbling. There’s the sound of water and yelping laughter across the way towards the pool, but he’s not looking over there. He’s walking to his car, without falling over. He’s going to open it up, collapse inside, and forget the world. 

Which would be a lot easier… if Cas weren’t leaning against the door waiting for him. 

Dean’s tempted to turn right around when he sees him, but apparently Cas’ thought of that genius alternative plan because as soon as he catches sight of Dean stumbling across the parking lot he’s heading directly for him.

Dean sighs, lolling his head back and trying to convince the sky to stop spinning.

“Did you get lost?” Cas asks. He almost sounds angry.

Dean finds himself snorting a laugh. That’s dumb. Cas is dumb.

“Dean,” Cas says firmly, so firmly Dean can’t help letting his head fall back down to look at him.

He _is_ angry. Huh.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs. “What? Nothing.”

Cas’ look hardens. And shit, he really can get a little scary…

“You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“Oh, well, sorry,” Dean says, unable to help the sarcasm that drips it’s way in. 

“Why?” Cas asks, ignoring his tone easily. “What’s wrong?”

“Look,” Dean tries, and god this would all be so much easier if he had his car to hold onto. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why you think it matters, or why you keep thinking it matter, but it doesn’t. Who the fuck cares? I don’t.”

“You’re upset,” Cas says simply. “I care.” 

“Yeah, well, you seem to have your hands full,” Dean says, turning to walk away.

Cas catches his shoulder and turns him back. “What does that mean?”

“Look, you’ve got your ‘friend’ visiting, she-demon, college-buddy, whatever. You’re obviously all set. So, whatever, it’s doesn’t matter.”

Cas sighs staring down at his feet. “I wanted a chance to explain first.”

Dean laughs, but it comes out all wrong. “Dude, it’s no big deal. Whatever, she’s your ex. I get it. Whatever.”

He really needs to stop saying ‘whatever’. It’s starting to sound like the very opposite of what he means for it to mean.

“She’s not my ‘ex’,” Cas insists, stepping closer. “She’s my friend.”

“Right. Whatever.”

Dammit.

Cas sighs and suddenly he’s reaching out, taking Dean’s wrist and leading him across the parking lot.

“Whoa, whoa, where we going?” Dean asks, stumbling after him and glancing back at the distancing sanctuary of his car.

“I want to tell you something. And I don’t want to stand in the parking lot anymore.”

He’s heading for the theater.

“Um…” Dean trails.

“Alone.” Cas says dimly.

Dean shuts up. 

Cas lets go of his wrist to wriggle the backdoor to the theater open and slide inside, dragging Dean after him. It’s dark, almost totally, but there’s a light shining from the stage so Cas huffs and heads towards it, leaving Dean little option but to follow.

There’s one standing light left on the stage, off to one side, shedding cool yellow light out in a smooth circle around the theater.

Cas ignores all of that, moving until he reaches the end of the stage and plops down.

“Sit,” He says firmly.

Dean’s apparently not in a mood to stay standing so he gets there and lets himself collapse down next to Cas.

It’s quiet for a moment. Pretty amazing actually, how quiet it can get inside a space like this. Hours ago it had been rocking with noise and now even the slightest sound would fill it, but there’s nothing, just quiet.

“You asked if I had any tattoos," Cas says.

“Oh,” Dean remembers. “Yeah. Right.” He suddenly squinting. “Did you tell me?”

Cas laughs lightly. “No, I didn’t.”

He sighs and looks down. He turns his wrist over and holds it out for Dean to see.

Dean squints and the image gets a little easier to see. He leans forward a bit, holding onto the stage to make sure he doesn’t fall right off, and then it’s clear.

There’s wings. A pair of them, spread open on the inside of his wrist. They’re small, hardly two inches across. Plain. 

“ ’S nice,” Dean tries.

Cas rubs a hand behind his neck, looking down at his feet. “Uh, no… it’s, well, it’s sort of… because of you.”

Dean blinks. “What? I didn’t do that.” He’s laughing. “I can’t even sign my name like a normal person.”

Castiel laughs. His cheeks are going red. “Ah, no, of course not. But it’s because of you. For you. In a way.”

Dean’s throat is feeling dry. He really shouldn’t have stopped drinking. “I don’t get it.”

“You sent me an email.” Cas says.

“Yeah a couple,” Dean smiles.

Cas shakes his head. “One in particular… It was, maybe, six months after that first one. You, um, you said that I had saved you. That you had been in a dark place, a painful place, and you were lost and didn’t think that there would be anything left of you. And,” Cas squints down at the floor, swallowing and focusing to continue. “You said I saved you. You said I pulled you out of that. And you remembered you could have faith in something. You called me, a, uh, angel.”

“Oh jesus.” Dean’s going to be sick. He’s actually going to be sick. He’s going to throw up eight glasses of whiskey right here on Cas’ shoes. “No. I never sent that. Jesus christ, I don’t even remember writing that.”

“There were many typos,” Cas admits, cheeks still on fire. “I’m not sure you were totally in your sober state of mind.”

Dean lets out a deep groan, leaning forward to catch his head in his hands. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t think you quite meant it in the literally sense,” Cas tries. “You said that your mother used to tell you to have faith, that angels were looking out for you. And then she left. You said without her saying that to you, you never could quite get to sleep as easily. And, well, you said that now, you can put on the music, our music, and it was that same sense of security.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Fuck throwing up. Fuck everything. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to pass out and never ever remember any of this ever again.

But… whoa, whoa, wait—

“You… you got a tattoo because of _that?!_ ”

Cas’ beyond blushing now, he actually looks like he’s been half strangled. “Yes.”

“Why?! God it was just a _stupid_ -ass drunk email!”

Cas looks at him. “Because it mattered. To me.”

Dean stares.

Cas shakes his head with a small laugh. “I knew you were drunk, and I knew you probably didn’t mean it and certainly didn’t mean to share it but… Well, I felt like I had done something. I had really truly given something to someone. Someone who mattered to me. And who only mattered more everyday.” He sighs, leaning back. “Luke plays because he wants to define something, and Gabriel simply loves it, but me… I wanted to make a difference. I wasn’t sure how, or why, but I knew this was what I did, and I wanted it to matter, to change things for someone. And, well,”

He turns his head, looking over his shoulder at into Dean’s stunned face.

“No one,” He smiles weakly, “Has ever said anything to me that mattered half as much as that stupid-ass drunk email.”

Dean stares, watching the way the sharp shadows for the light catch along Cas’ face. He should say something. Laugh maybe. But none of that seems quite right. He settles for wetting his lips because they’ve gone dry and sticky all at once. He tries clearing his throat. It doesn’t help. 

“Can you play something?”

Dean looks away from Cas’ mouth. “What?”

“You said you might play something…” Cas tries, “And, um, there’s still a few guitars here.”

“What?” Dean stares. “On the _stage_?!”

“Why not?” Cas smiles. 

Dean groans, collapsing all the way backwards until he’s lying on the boards. “Jesus, Cas, I’m like… really fucking drunk. It will sound like shit.”

“Oh, come on.” Cas grins down at him. “Luke’s drunk most shows.”

“Yeah, well I’m not fucking Luke.”

“No.” Cas snorts. “Sam is.”

Dean can’t help laughing way too hard, feeling his back bounce against the stage as he throws his forearm over his eyes.

“Come on,” Cas almost whines, and god, maybe he’s a little too drunk too. “Play something.”

“Fine, fine, _fiiiine_.” Dean groans and picks himself up. “But only because you made me feel like a total girl. Who the fuck calls guys _angels_? Jesus christ.”

“Yeah, but he actually hung out with them.” Cas shrugs.

“If you keep making me laugh I’m not singing anything.” Dean grins.

There’s an acoustic leaning against a wall and he snatches it. He thinks it’s one of Luke’s. It’s black and has a sticker of Tintin with red eyes and devil horns in the corner.

He slings it over his shoulder, getting used to the feel of it as he lets his hands trace over the strings and try to remember how to not sound like a total asshole.

“I wasn’t kidding about being way too fucking drunk,” Dean reminds.

“You’re fine,” Cas says, waving a hand in his direction and leaning back, getting fucking comfortable as if this is actually going to be interesting.

Dean looks down, trying to think of something, _anything_ that he could actually make sound decent. 

But Cas is smiling at him, like he doesn’t doubt that it’s going to be something worth listening to, so he swallows and he starts.

“ _Looks like you got me where you want me_  
So go ahead and roll up your web  
The best things in life are hard to come by  
But sometimes the best things come from accidents.”

He’s not sure why he goes with that song. Maybe because it’s not that hard and he thinks he can actually get all the cords without stumbling. Maybe because it’s just been hanging out in his brain for the past couple of days. Maybe it’s because it’s just so American and he loves that, and maybe it’s because the song really sounds best when there’s a cello playing along side. And it really sounds better on piano if he’s being honest.

“ _When days are dark darling remember_  
My love for you won't go away  
I almost lost you last september  
And my heart still has yet to forgive me” 

But no matter what the reason, he goes with it, and his voice fills the vast hollow of the empty space.

“ _Is it just me, Am I seeing things?_  
Or does the way we breathe make perfect sense?  
I could start fires with what I feel for you  
The sun could fade out and we'd see it through.”

His eyes must have closed at some point, but that’s fine. Who needs to see anyways. And what’s he going to see, dark seats? Cas? He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see Cas. He hasn’t had to for six years, and that isn’t changing any time soon. 

“ _You have a beauty like no other_  
A confidence that brings me fear  
If I compare myself too long I might just run away  
But you have a grace that keeps me here-”

 

The song dies away and even backstage Sam can hear Dean laughing at himself, making some excuse about it. 

Sam pulls the bottle in his fingers back to his lips and takes another sip, sighing as he leans back against the wall and shuts his eyes, before lifting himself up and heading for the door before he can hear what Cas manages to say to all of that. He stumbles all the way, feeling the whiskey slosh around the bottle in his hand, and hits the door full force with his shoulder. If it hurts he doesn’t feel it as he pushes out. The cool summer air of the city pushes him, catching in his hair and smelling like subway and a little like cut grass and wine, and Sam sighs against it.

It’s not fair.

It’s simple for them.

Dean might not see it. Cas might not even see it. But everyone else does. Anyone else would. It’s the simplest thing in the world.

They love each other. And they’ll go on loving each other.

Dean will stay, and maybe eventually pull his head out of his ass. And things will just be... Simple.

Who the fuck did Luke think he was? Asking him questions like that? Kissing him like that? Making him feel like this much of an asshole for just saying what they both knew. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? Sex. They’d known that. Hell, he’d gotten there much faster than Sam had, hitting on him after five minutes of seeing him and wasn’t he just getting what he wanted.

It’s not fair.

Sam pulls the bottle up to his lips, taking a deep sip and feeling it burn all the way down. 

Luke’s laugh suddenly echoes across the parking lot. It’s off to one side, a little ways away. Sam turns his head, and shit, when did it get this heavy? 

There’s a splash, like water. The pool. 

He hears the laugh again and the words, too low to distinguish. But he knows its him. He’s starting to think that the sound of his voice is carved into his brain in a whole mess of ways that will be causing psychological side-effects well into the future.

But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that he’s there, and it’s not fair. He made him feel like an asshole, and for what? _Nothing._ Totally nothing. Well he’s going to have to answer for that.

Sam stumbles, focusing intently on the ground in front of his feet and wandering in the general direction of the sounds of water and laughter. He focuses on the feeling of the glass under his fingertips, the way the asphalt catches against his boots as he walks, and then he’s catching himself against the chain-link fence roughly and trying to focus.

He can’t see the pool. No. Wait. Yes he can. It’s just around a corner.

He squints, letting his eyes follow the cement and the line of chairs to where the pool starts to curl around the building where he can see. The water shines, green and lit from underneath, spilling pale luminance up over the darkness around it. 

The laughter sounds again and Sam has to lean. Carefully. Very carefully. And then he can just see the other side.

They’re far away. Far enough away that he can’t quite hear anything they’re saying. But that’s not really important. What’s far more important is that there’s a pile of clothes scrambled together on the cement and there’s a naked girl sitting on the edge of the pool laughing hysterically and kicking against the water.

Sam blinks hard and tries to make his brain focus. 

It’s definitely her. He can recognize her even this far off, even if it’s a bit hard to focus on her face when her milky torso’s leaning over the water like that and saying something to someone Sam can’t quite see. At least can’t until he swims that much closer, and then he most defiantly can see, _way_ too much.

Luke’s saying something, smiling at her as she leans over, and then he’s planting two hands on the cement ground on either side of her and lifting himself up out of the water and tall enough to lean in and—

Sam can’t really see exactly what, but the sick feeling in his stomach seems to have a pretty good idea.

Meg leans back after a second or two, laughing even louder and then Luke’s laughing too, grabbing her waist and tugging her forward. She lets out a little scream, wrapping her legs around his naked torso and her arms around his neck, holding on, trying to stay above the water until Luke falls back, submerging them both. When they come up again she’s drifted back into his arms, holding on and splashing water in his face as he tilts his head into her neck— 

Sam turns away. 

His feet are walking in the opposite direction before he even realizes it and he’s tugging the bottle back to his lips just as thoughtlessly. He squints hard, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to focus on not throwing up and more importantly on not falling down.

But apparently he’s not focusing enough because suddenly he’s catching a jagged edge of cement and stumbling forward, trying to decide wether to drop the bottle or catch himself on it.

A hand hits his chest firmly, pushing him back upright with a snort.

“You’re supposed to say timber you know.” Gabriel smirks, one eyebrow tilting up.

“ ’S fine,” Sam tries. “Good. Fine.”

Gabriel takes a step back, holding both of Sam’s arms and straightening him up to get a proper look at him. “You alright there, champ?”

“Fine.” Sam slurs. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel squints. “So I heard.”

“Mean it,” Sam manages, “Really.”

Gabriel’s gaze drifts off his face down to the bottle in his hands. “That yours?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly the small hand is reaching down and taking it away. Sam makes a half hearted snatch for it.

“Hey— ’s mine.”

“Tell you what,” Gabriel says, wiggling the half empty thing between two fingers. “I’ll make you a deal. Share, and I won’t drop it.”

Sam squints, “I don’t want too share.”

Gabriel’s eyeing him more carefully. “Where you going Sam?”

Sam shrugs.

Gabriel leans back, shifting the bottle in his hand. “You having a fun night?”

“No.” Sam says without thinking. “I’m not.”

“Do you want to?”

Sam blinks hard. He’s really not sure how to answer. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Gabriel sighs. “Alright, well, let’s put it this way: do you want to wander into your RV like Charlie Brown after he missed a booty call, or do you want to maybe try to salvage the evening?”

Sam frowns. “ ’M not Charlie Brown.”

Gabriel can’t seem to help smiling. “No, of course not.”

“He has a yellow shirt.”

Gabriel nods supportively, “Several, I think. Either that or a pretty shoddy hygiene.”

Sam snorts out a laugh.

“There,” Gabriel says, leaning forward to look up into his face. “There, see, more fun already.”

Sam can’t seem to help smiling. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” Gabriel answers.

“I don’t know…” Sam slurs.

“We can make a deal,” Gabriel smiles. “If I can’t make you snicker like that again in two minutes, you can go mope your way off to bed.”

Sam eyes him. “Fine.”

“Great.” Gabriel gives Sam a short shove and is heading in the direction of his car. 

Sam’s almost surprised to see it so close, had they been walking before?

“So,” Gabriel smirks, scooting up onto the hood of the car and taking a sip off the bottle and waggling an eyebrow. “Want to see my jigglypuff tattoo?”

Sam snorts on his laugh a little too hard and tastes whiskey in his nose as he turns and leans back against the car.

Gabriel smiles. “I win.”

Sam’s not exactly sure how much time goes by. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. All he can really be sure of is that the bottle’s a lot lighter than it was when he sat down and the moon is pretty much where he remembers it being when he leaned back on the cool slide of the windshield. And he’s smiling.

He squints, trying to see if he can can see the stars through the orange glow of the city all around them. But no luck.

He rolls his shoulder slightly, hitting Gabriel’s as he reaches for the bottle. Gabriel hands it over, voice drawling over some story Sam’s barely hearing. He thinks it has something to do with Iceland, and New Years, and puffins. But he’s not totally sure.

Sam pulls the bottle to his lips and then drags it back with a soft “plop” sound.

“Gone,” He says.

He feels Gabriel turning next to him, hears his coat catch slightly on the windshield. “Hmm?”

Sam tilts it upside down, letting the few drops fall down onto his chest. “Gone. Done.”

Gabriel sighs. “Bummer.”

He reaches over, wrapping his hand around Sam’s where it’s holding onto the bottle and sits up, chucking it with one smooth motion across the parking lot. 

Sam’s laughing as the distant shattering noise hits his ears, sitting up to match. “Hey, ’s dangerous.”

“Bullshit,” Gabriel says.

“No, it is.” Sam insists.

“For who?” Gabriel asks, gesturing at the abandoned parking lot, “All the fucking pedestrian traffic?”

“No,” Sam tries with a shrug, “Nature.”

Gabriel stares. “…Nature?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods firmly. “ ’S Nature.”

“What kind of nature would that be, Attenborough?”

Sam squints, “The foxes… the urban ones.”

Gabriel’s laughing. It’s a nice sound. He laughs like he means it, not like it’s some cold joke that’s more ironic than anything. He laughs like he’s actually happy.

Sam finds himself smiling, watching him lazily. His hair’s pushed back from his face like it always is, but a few strands have fallen out of place in front of his eyes with the drunk and the laughter and everything else. 

It’s funny. His eyes really are kinda gold aren’t they? He’d thought they were brown, but they’re not. They are in the right light but when he laughs they light up and the gold peaks up. Funny. It’s almost the opposite color of Luke’s eyes.

“Right, the foxes!” Gabriel shakes his head, “I don’t know how I forgot the foxes. Tell you what, we can go over, and check, and if we find any lacerated little foxes we’ll stitch them right up. Okay?”

“Hey?” Sam says.

Gabriel turns. “Yeah?”

Sam kisses him.

He must have. Because he’s got a hand in his hair, tilting his head up the few inches it needs to go, and he can feel lips against his and a small surprised huff escaping between them. 

Gabriel’s still for a moment in surprise, and then he’s slipping open and Sam pushes harder, urging his tongue against his and spreading his lips wider. He feels a small sound swell in Gabriel’s chest and then there’s a hand on the back on his neck, holding on as a small hand slides up his thigh.

He doesn’t kiss like him.

He doesn’t own it the same way. He invites, teasing, asking, almost pushing just enough to make Sam push harder on his own, not smashing into him the way Luke does. His hair is long enough to get a fist in and soft under Sam’s hand, and his stubble isn’t nearly what his brother’s is. It’s more like kissing girls, but still, unmistakable. 

They stay like that just a steady slow press, no building heat, no scrambling hands. Just a kiss. For a minute, maybe two, maybe a lot more than two. He’s not sure. What he is sure of is that Gabriel tugs back gently, finally. 

“Alright,” Gabriel sighs softly, pushing Sam’s hair out of his face.

Sam let’s out a sleepy sort of hum and falls into the curve of his shoulder. “Tired.”

“I know,” Gabriel says. “Come on.”

He slides off the hood, urging Sam with him and slipping an arm around his waist. Sam gets an arm over his shoulders and lets him help him up the small stairs into the RV.

He hits the bed hard with a short groan. He’s already starting to feel a headache forming in his skull. A distant part of his brain insists that tomorrow is going to utterly slaughter him.

Gabriel chuckles, tugging off Sam’s boots and putting them down in the kitchen.

Sam rolls over, wrapping his arms around the nearest pillow.

He feels a hand squeeze his shoulder briefly. “Night, Kiddo.” 

Sleep starts to crawl into his brain, heavy and insistent, so he closes his eyes. Somewhere far off he hears the door to the RV shut and light footsteps walking over the cement outside in the direction of the bus, but he’s unconscious before they get there. Which is good, because he’s really starting to feel sick, and he wishes he knew it was just because of the booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Dean sings is "Fires" by David Ramirez. (it's on the mix)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam’s suddenly smiling. “I think I heard you sing a song.”_
> 
> _Dean’s stare goes stoney. “No. I don’t think you did.”_
> 
>  _Sam can’t help laughing just a little even if it does make his head feel like it’s going to fall off. “No, no, I definitely did. Something about_ ‘does the way we breathe make perfect sense’.” __
> 
> _“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean growls._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO!O! Alright, we're DONE! 
> 
> There's a [ MIX ](http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/misplaced-grace)
> 
> And a [ GRAPHIC ](http://fortinbrasftw.tumblr.com/post/69030836358/misplaced-grace-a-rockband-au-read)
> 
> Enjoy <3

He’s dead. 

He must be dead. Being alive has never felt this bad.

Sam groans and rolls over. This is the fourth time he’s tried to actually face the world with consciousness, and the first time he’s gotten even halfway to succeeding. His head is still throbbing like there’s a cartoon inside it with a jackhammer, but at least this time moving doesn’t make him think he’s instantly going to throw up all over himself, so he goes with it. 

And _jesus_ how much did he drink last night? What the fuck even happened last night? 

There’s a vague memory of being angry. Really angry. And drunk. _Really_ drunk. He thinks he might have seen someone’s boobs, but he’s really not fucking sure who’s, or how, but he’s pretty sure they were far enough away that he didn’t actually come into close contact with them. Which is weird… because he thinks he might remember an unfamiliar taste on his tongue.

Ugh. No. Bad idea. Coffee first. Thinking after.

His big hand reaches out, slapping down on his phone where it’s fallen out of his jeans and gotten tangled up in the blankets. 

Sam lifts his head up just enough to blink and focus and - holy fuck.

It’s 4:00. PM.

Sam sits up instantly and _fuck_ , that was too fast. His hand presses to his head, trying to convince the nausea to hold off just for one fucking second so he can at least get upright. He stumbles to his feet, kicking his boots out of the way and keeping a firm hand on the ceiling as he shoves his way out into the RV kitchen. Dean’s already beaten him to it. He’s leaning over the coffee machine like it’s some kind of alter, watching as it drips down into the jug and muttering things Sam thinks might be small prayers for hangover-salvation.

“Um,” Sam starts.

Dean rolls his head to look at him, wincing on the way. “You look like shit.”

Sam squints. “You have a receipt stuck to your head.”

Dean swats at his hair until the thing flutters down to the countertop. “Huh.”

“Did you sleep on the floor?” Sam asks, stumbling towards the bathroom.

“Impala,” Dean says. “Must be a gas receipt.”

“Ah,” Sam tries.

He hits the bathroom hard, almost collapsing into the sink, and brushes his teeth for a good five minutes straight before falling out of his clothes. Sam then manages the most refreshing three minute shower of his life, which consists of pretty much just leaning against the wall headfirst and praying that the water can do a good enough job.

When he drags himself out Dean’s handing him a steaming mug.

“God, fucking thank you,” Sam sighs as he wraps his hands around the smooth warmth of it and lets himself very slowly sink into one of the seats.

“So,” Dean groans from inside his own mug. “How did you end up looking like fresh hell?”

“Hungover,” Sam mumbles, taking a frankly _amazing_ sip of coffee.

“Yeah. No shit," Dean says with a blank look. “How’d that happen.”

Sam squints, supporting his head with one hand. “I… don’t totally know.”

Dean hums acknowledgment.

Sam focuses. “I think… well, I _know_ , I left that fucking club. And then I think I found a bottle of whiskey in the tour bus.”

“Ah,” Dean notes.

Sam’s suddenly smiling. “I think I heard you sing a song.”

Dean’s stare goes stoney. “No. I don’t think you did.”

Sam can’t help laughing just a little even if it does make his head feel like it’s going to fall off. “No, no, I definitely did. Something about _‘does the way we breathe make perfect sense’.”_

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean growls.

“No, no, it was cute, it really was.”

“Shut up or no more coffee.”

Sam contents himself with smiling into the dark goodness, breathing in the steam and letting his brain slowly convince itself it’s not actually dying.

Dean takes a big sip and then puts down the mug with a smack of his lips. “So, pharmacy?”

“God, yes,” Sam says. “No, wait, the guys must have something. Can’t you ask Cas or Gabriel-“

Oh god. Parts of the night start slipping back. There’s a pool and the sound of breaking glass. Sam blinks hard until the memories stop. He doesn’t need to remember. He needs to not feel like he’s going to throw up first.

“I don’t know,” Dean groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands. “I haven’t seen any signs of life from the inside. I think we should leave them alone until we do.”

Sam nods. “Right. Okay.”

“I mean they have a show to do tonight. We should let them stay unconscious as long as fucking possible and maybe they’ll be able to pull it off.”

Sam groans leaning his head back. “Oh god. We have to set up. In the fucking park.”

Dean refills his coffee. “Jesus, don’t remind me.”

“I think if I pick up anything more than half a pound I will actually boot,” Sam groans.

“Come on,” Dean drags his feet over and puts a firm hand under his arm, urging him up. “Pharmacy first.”

Sam sighs with a heavy nod. “Pharmacy first.”

They find it alright, it’s getting back that’s significantly more of a problem. Sam’s almost convinced that it was just their body’s subconscious need to heal that led them there, and once they had downed their Advil and were sipping on their Pepto the way they’d come was suddenly far more obscure.

They ended up wandering down a few streets before finally giving up and going into a little cafe to ask, and that had turned into taking a seat and wolfing down some _perfect_ hangover sandwiches and fries before eventually, and finally, finding their way to the lot where they left the buses.

The show was in the park tonight, a little ways off the pond where the stage structure was already set up for the other bands that had been playing during the day, and they had no choice but to pretty much get started in immediately. It’s actually not all that bad, pretty amazing really what a couple of pills, a good two hours wandering the streets, three bottles of water, and a hearty meal will do for a hangover. Sam’s actually managing to pick things up and put them down with our fear of vomiting instantly all over everything. His head’s still banging, and judging by the way Dean has to stop every ten minutes or so, drain his water bottle, and sit down to groan, he’s in about the same state. But it’s not that bad. It’s cooler than it has been the whole trip, hanging out in the perfect lower seventies, and there’s a breeze shifting through the park, moving the leaves around them and rippling across the face of the pond.

The crowd is already gathered, milling around in front, probably left over from the show before and the one before that, drunk on the weekend and the sunshine, ready for even more of it.

“Guess we’re pushing it, huh?” Dean asks, setting down the last amp and plugging it in quickly as he eyes the crowd.

“Yeah,” Sam huffs, “No kidding. Do we even know if they’re awake?”

“They better be,” Dean notes, heading offstage as Sam follows close behind. “The show starts in twenty minutes.”

“DEAN!” A voice suddenly yells behind them.

They both spin - Cas is running full tilt across the grass from the parking lot. Dean’s moving, running to meet him and Sam’s following.

Cas skids to a stop in front of them, panting, eyes wide and terrified. “You have to come. Now. He’s going to kill him.”

“What?!” Sam yells.

“Just come on!” Cas insists, turning and heading back towards the buses full tilt.

Dean doesn’t even pause, rushing after him, and Sam’s got little choice but the follow.

As soon as they hit the asphalt the yelling is loud enough to hear. It’s inside the tour bus. Yelling, and smashing.

“Shit-“ Dean swears, tugging at the door until it’s open and clambering up the tight steps to get inside.

Sam’s right after him, ducking instantly and barely being missed by a shot glass that flies over his head and shatters against the back wall.

“Look,” A voice tries, “Just calm down, alright?”

Sam turns just in time to see Luke stumble a meaty punch directly into Gabriel’s face.

“Hey!” Dean yells, shouldering his way towards them.

“I said, not the fucking face!” Gabriel yells back, kicking Luke’s shin hard and sending him sprawling against one of the couches. But Luke’s staggering up almost immediately, grabbing Gabriel’s wrist and swinging him around to smash him against one of the doors.

Dean’s on him in a second, dragging Luke back and away, which looks shockingly easy for him to do, even as Luke’s throwing his arms around in a clumsy mess.

“Hey, hey!” Dean shouts, finally shoving him away. “Calm down!”

Luke lands on the couch, glaring at Gabriel like he’s going to burn everything he’s ever owned. But he seems to be staying in one place for now.

Dean stays where he is, stationed between both of them with hands out on either side, eyeing Luke with his “do not fucking try” face. Luke’s rolling his eyes like it’s the opposite of impressive, leaning back into the couch and wincing hard, a small hiss escaping between his teeth.

He’s drunk. Very drunk. It’s instantly obvious and suddenly Sam’s shocked he’s still standing. Luke snatches out to grab an almost empty whiskey bottle off the counter.

Dean gets there first. “That’s about enough I think.” He says, throwing the bottle towards Cas who catches it and puts it safety down on a counter across the bus.

“What the fuck?!” Sam stares.

The bus is destroyed. There’s broken glass, busted tables, half the cushions have been ripped off the couches and are lying helter-skelter all over the cabin.

Gabriel’s got his hand under his nose, a steady stream of blood slipping out from behind his fingers. He takes them away for a second with a groan and he’s got an impressive busted lip to add to the nose, which is already swelling up to about twice it’s normal size.

Luke’s barely managing to stay conscious on the sofa. He’s got a cut on his forehead that’s made a chunk of his bangs bloody. His head is lolling to one side like it’s made of iron and he can’ quite manage to stand the weight.

Cas shakes his head. “I just found them like this.”

“Where’s Meg?” Dean asks, looking around.

“I think she left last night,” Cas says. “She never says goodbyes. She doesn’t like them.”

“Nice,” Sam says.

Luke snorts where he’s sitting, like that’s a complete joke and Sam stares at him. He doesn’t look back. In fact he doesn’t look back so hard that it’s immensely worse.

“He was out,” Cas says, brows furrowing in concern as he looks at Luke. “All night. Like this. And he came back and just…”

“Punches me in ‘he phucking ‘ace!” Gabriel swears, swollen lip already increasing in size and making him sound like a cartoon character.

“Deserved it,” Luke slurs. And _jesus_ he’s really, _really_ drunk. “Shouldn’t have done it.”

“What?” Cas asks, glaring at Gabriel, “What the hell did you do?”

Gabriel gapes. “ ‘othing!”

Luke’s suddenly glaring at him like his eyes are on fire. “Liar. Lying, fucking. Stupid—“

He snatches the closest thing, which is luckily just an empty beer can, and chucks it full force at Gabriel. It misses and thanks to Luke’s drunken state sends him spinning off the couch and onto the floor, the beer can bouncing off Dean’s forehead.

“Hey!” Dean snaps.

“He kissed Sam,” Luke mumbles into the carpet where he is facedown on the floor.

Oh god.

“O’kay, ‘ike I said, ‘f eenything Sam ‘issed _me_.” Gabriel insists through his broken lip.

“Oh god,” Sam let’s slip.

And suddenly everyone is staring at him.

Well, everyone except Gabriel who’s staring at his own bloody hand and Luke who may or may not be unconscious on the floor. 

“...Sam?” Cas asks.

Oh god.

“I… I don’t…” Sam tries. And Fuck. Everything’s slipping into place, crashing back around him with violence and clarity and it’s worse than the hangover, worse than everything. “I - I was really, _really_ drunk-“

“Jesus christ Sammy!” Dean swears.

“ ‘hanks Kiddo,” Gabriel glares, giving Sam a half hearted thumbs up.

“Liars,” Luke mutters into the floor. “Stupid.”

“Jesus, Gabe, did you actually hit the poor bastard?” Dean asks, nudging Luke’s numb body with his foot.

“No,” Gabriel pouts. “Ee ‘it ‘imself. On the ‘able. And ‘he door. Ahlso the floor. A’ few times.”

Luke let’s out a disgruntled sound that may or may not have been an actual attempt at words.

Sam takes a step back. “This isn’t my fault…” 

Cas is looking at him with those massive fucking judgement eyes.

“It’s not!” Sam yells. “It was… Meg’s… fault...”

“Stop,” Dean says firmly. “Just stop. Jesus. Ball up or shut up, alright?”

Sam takes the later option.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says eventually, staring around the destroyed room. “We have to cancel.”

“What?!” Gabriel yells, urging his body off the wall.

“He can’t play. He certainly can’t sing,” Cas says, eyeing Luke’s body.

Luke makes a sound. It seems like he tries to lift himself off the ground for a second but his arm just folds in under him and he starts laughing hysterically into the floor.

“Jesus…” Dean stares.

“We have to cancel,” Cas repeats.

“God, ‘top saying ‘hat!” Gabriel yells. “We can’t ‘ancel, we’ve nhever ‘ancelled!”

“Cas can sing,” Dean tries.

“No he can’t,” The entire band says at once. Even if it’s mostly a garbled groan from Luke.

“What? Why?”

“I sound like ‘cats being slowly pulled apart’,” Cas mutters.

“ ‘Nd ‘hat’s a direct quoote,” Gabriel notes. “I can ‘oo it!”

“Sing… and play the drums?” 

“ ‘ure!”

Cas squints. “Say ‘thanks for coming’.”

Gabriel sighs around his lip. “Tanks fo’ koomin’.”

“As I suspected,” Cas says.

Sam sighs, still looking at Luke’s sprawled out across the floor of the bus. He has one hand half closed out in front of him, knuckles still raw from Gabriel’s face and whatever the hell else he happened to run into.

He's fucked this up. He really, really has. There’s no denying that. And he can’t fix it.

Or... maybe he doesn’t have to.

“Dean can do it,” Sam says suddenly. “Dean can play.”

“Whoa, whoa, no he fucking can’t!” Dean yells instantly, backing away.

“Yeah, you can!” Sam says with sudden desperation, “You know all the songs! And you’re good Dean, you seriously are, I heard you last night.”

“He’s right,” Cas says, eyes widening with sudden hope. “Of course, Dean can do it.” 

“No, no, no, not ‘of-fucking course’!” Dean yells, stepping back so quickly he almost trips over Luke.

Gabriel catches his shoulders. “Um. ‘hy not?”

“ _Because!_ ” Dean cries, suddenly looking panicked enough to jump out one of the windows. “I’m not _him_ ,” Dean insists firmly, gesturing to Luke.

Luke groans from the floor.

“Mmm. ‘ood point,” Gabriel mutters with a significant eye roll. “ ‘ome on!”

“No!” Dean shouts, glaring at Sam like he’s going to murder him. “I can’t, I fucking can’t! You guys are rockstars for fuck-sake - this is what you _do_. I fix cars! I’m a mechanic! I’m not a rockstar. I’m pretty much exactly _nobody_.”

It goes quiet around them and Sam can’t help staring for a moment, even when he knows he shouldn’t. He wants to say something. Anything. But Cas gets there first.

“Dean.” Cas steps closer, reaches out and gets ahold of his shoulder. “Look at me.”

And he does, fear and anxiety and everything else flooding out of his eyes.

Cas holds on tighter. “Do you want to play?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not about wanting to-“

“Of course it is.”

“It’s not that simple, Cas. I can’t, even if I did want to.”

Cas hardens his stare. “Do you want to?”

Dean swallows. “Of course I fucking want to.”

“Then you’re going to,” Cas says. “It’s as simple as that.”

Dean stares. He opens his mouth like he protest, but it seems like something about Cas holding him like that and keeping his eyes directly on his is making everything else wash away.

“And the last thing your are is nothing,” Cas says.

Dean holds his eyes for a moment and let’s out a shaky sigh.

“I can’t promise anything…” He says. “But I can try.”

Cas doesn’t let him go, even as he returns his smile.

“But we should go,” Dean says firmly. “Now. Before I actually realize what’s happening and throw up on everything.”

“Deal,” Gabriel manages around his lip. He gets a hand on Dean’s shoulder and starts to hurry him out.

“Hey- what about-?” Dean starts, glancing at Luke as Gabriel and Cas start to rush him out the door.

“Don’t worry,” Sam forces a reassuring smile. “My mess. I’ll clean it up.”

Dean still looks worried as hell, but he barely manages one nod before Gabriel gets him out the door. It slams behind them before Sam can see them start to rush across the parking lot towards the waiting stage.

God… he really hopes Dean doesn’t throw up on anyone.

There’s a groan from the floor.

He turns, just in time to see Luke manage to get halfway upright. Sam’s hurrying, kneeling down just in time to help him sit up properly. He leans back against the bottom of the couch with a wince.

“Hey,” Sam hears himself say, leaning in to try and get a proper look at him. 

“Mm?” Luke’s eyes pull themselves open half an inch and then shut again firmly when they see him. “No.”

Sam swallows. He reaches out to tilt his chin and Luke swats his hand away with a grumbling sound.

“Where’d they go?” He asks, eyes still shut.

“They, uh, went to do the show.”

Luke leans back with a sigh. “Was I good?”

“What?”

“The show? Good?” Luke manages, eyes pulling open slightly again to gaze back at Sam like he really needs to hear an answer.

Sam forces a smile. “The best.”

Luke lets his head fall forward in a nod. Part of his bangs are still colored from the cut on his head. Sam can’t help wincing, reach out to try and get his chin again. He manages it this time and turns him so he can get a proper look at the cut but Luke flinches away from him.

“Hey, come on,” Sam feels himself whisper. “Please?”

Luke doesn’t move. He stays collapsed against the couch, head turned firmly away so Sam can’t even see his face.

Sam furrows his brow. He keeps his attention on the ground between them, where Luke’s hand in resting palm up, fingers just slightly curled. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “God I’m so sorry.”

Luke doesn’t move.

Sam shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.

“You were right,” He says. “I was jealous. I don’t know why. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t… But god, I don’t...” 

He shakes his head and sighs. After a second he lets himself fall back, leaning against the bottom on the couch next to him, arms resting over his bent knees.

He leans his head back, shaking his hair out of his eyes and letting them close.

“I just… I saw you, and her, and I know what I said in the bar wasn’t fair. I know it was horrible. And I’m starting to wonder why I even said it. But I saw you together and I… I don’t know. I was drunk. And it was stupid. And I’m sorry.”

Luke remains silent. But his body leans, or rather stops not leaning, and the half an inch between their shoulders closes.

They stay like that for awhile, shoulders just touching enough that he can feel his breathing rise and fall with his own.

“Tired,” Luke whispers finally.

Sam sighs, righting his head. “Cleanup first. Alright?”

Luke groans, but Sam gets up, wrapping an arm around his waist and getting him off the floor. He’s weirdly heavier than he expected, but it’s not too hard to get him sitting up properly on the couch and he even manages to stay upright while Sam goes and gets the first aid kit out of the bathroom, tidying up the mess where he can along the way.

Luke’s eyes are closed by the time he gets back, but they pull open for half a second when Sam puts down the kit and starts pulling things out of it. They’re shut again by the time Sam pushes his bangs gently out of the way and starts wiping away the blood around the cut. It’s better than it seems, like with most head wounds, it’s hardly a wound anyways, really just a messy scrap. 

“What did this?” Sam mumbles.

“Table,” Luke answers, hardly opening his mouth at all.

Sam sighs.

He gets the cut nice and clean and gets out the anti-bacterial, smudging a little into the cut. Luke winces and lets out a small displeased noise. 

Sam squeezes his hand. When did he start holding his hard? It doesn’t matter. He let’s it go and gets out a bandaid, letting himself feel a little stupid for bandaging up a rockstar like he’s his babysitter for a moment before carefully securing it.

He runs his finger over the edges, once, twice. His fingers trail and he’s pushing his hair back again, gently moving it out of the way. His hand shifts, knuckles drifting carefully down the side of his jaw and then it falls, resting on his lap.

Luke’s fingers curl around it. Sam watches him as he watches their fingers knit together slowly.

“Why don’t you like me?” Luke mutters.

Something goes tight in Sam’s throat. 

He leans forward until their foreheads are resting together and sighs. He feels his hand tighten around the one in it.

“I think because,” Sam breathes. “I can’t believe just how alive I feel when you’re around.”

The hand in his squeezes back.

“Alive’s good,” Luke mumbles.

Sam smiles, letting out a short huff of a laugh. “Yeah. Alive’s good.” 

He feels calmer suddenly, as if something’s fallen into place inside his head. He’s just not totally sure yet what it is. But it feels good.

He leans in, just an inch, maybe two. He kisses the corner of his mouth, quickly, just long enough to feel Luke’s lips press for a half a second in return.

“Alright,” Sam smiles. “Let’s take care of the tired.”

Luke hums approval.

Sam manages to get him into his room alright. He was worried at first he wouldn’t be able to tell which room was which, but he’s a little embarrassed he recognizes all the shirts on the floor so easily, even if it did make the whole decision easier. 

He gets Luke’s shoes and pants off with little hassle. He doesn’t even think before slipping off his own, and moving up onto the bed after him.

Luke sighs, eyes squeezed shut as he reaches out blindly for him. Sam catches his hand, pulling the blankets over them and sliding in next to him. He’s heavy, clumsy and drunk and frankly still smelling like hell. But he warms, and Sam’s sinking in, despite it all, wrapping and arm under him and pulling him close to his chest.

The weight’s nice, nicer than he thought it would be, and it isn’t long before Luke’s breathe is evening, and deepening. Sam listens to it for as long as he can before his own shifts to match.

 

He’s insane.

He’s actually gone completely insane.

There’s no other explanation. There’s no other possible fucking reason that he would be standing in front of a crow of at _least_ five hundred people with a guitar over his shoulder, microphone in front of his face, and a fucking army tearing up the inside of his stomach.

It’s too late now. He’s here. Even if he has no fucking idea how. It’s to late. And thinking about it is _not_ going to help. It’s not going to get close to helping because this is not ever going to be something that he can realistically fit inside his skull.

He focuses on the guitar instead, adjusting the tuning a bit at a time (never mine the fact that he’d already tuned it twice when he was setting up the damn stage). It’s fine. Maybe if he listens hard enough to the small changes in the notes then he won’t hear the increasing sound of discontented mumbling coming out of the massive audience in front of them.

He suddenly hears someone clear their throat a the mic. He looks up.

Cas is there.

“Good evening,” He says, voice echoing across the park.

The crowd gives a half hearted cheer. Dean thinks he hears someone scream “Where’s Luke?!” in the back. He closes his eyes and focuses very intently on not throwing up.

“There’s been a slightly adjustment tonight,” Cas’ voice continues. Dean watches him, he can do that. He can watch Cas. That’s all he has to do. Watch Cas. Not the lights, not the crowd, not anything. Just him. If he can do that, he might make it through this alive.

“Unfortunately, Luke’s been taken ill, and won’t be able to play tonight.”

The entire audience groans.

Dean closes his eyes and tries harder than he ever has in his entire life not to instantly break into a run.

“Fortunately,” Cas smiles. “We’ve been able to borrow one of our favorite guitarists from… _Hunter_ , a Kansas group we’ve been working with for years, for tonight’s performance.”

And what _the fucking christ_ \- but Cas is turning back to him, shrugging just enough for him to see with a grin and the crowd is suddenly making excited noises all around them.

“So,” Cas grins, “Let’s make him feel welcome,”

He throws his own hands together with enthusiasm and the entire crowd follows suit, even letting out one or two “whoops” in the process.

Dean swallows and takes a step forward, leaning into the mic. “Uh, thanks.”

His voice echoes, massive and booming through the speakers, and that’s about enough of that. He takes a step back.

He can see the set list where he taped it down on the stage in front of them. He tries to focus, tries to remember how the hell to even read, but he can’t. He shuts his eyes firmly and the opens them. He looks at Cas. 

Cas smiles.

He smiles like it’s the easiest thing in the word. Like it’s just them. Alone in that theater, a little too drunk to be doing anything altogether intelligent.

Dean can’t help noticing he has a hand wrapped around his wrist, firm and constant. Just behind his fingers he can see the small outline of wings.

Dean shuts his eyes. 

He takes a deep breath. 

And he starts to play.

_“Lord I can’t feed the baby, mama’s sick and in bed_  
I’ve got a world full of worry running wild in my head  
I spent all my money just to make ends meet  
I’m begging Lord won’t you send me relief  
There ain’t nobody in this world who’d bet a dime on anybody like me

_So I went down to the river of insufferable sins_  
Lord I tried but the water wouldn’t let me come in  
Too many lives have been broken  
There’s too much blood on my hands  
There ain’t no water in this world could turn me back into an innocent man.” 

He’s not sure how, or why, but… it actually seems to be working. The guitar doesn’t spontaneous combust in his hands. His voice doesn’t crack into nothing. Bottles don’t shatter onto the stage. There’s nothing. Just a song he knows, playing all around him.

_“So I made up my mind to find that palace of fire_  
Surely the Lord’s fallen angel understands my desire  
He’s been defiled and defeated still he never gives in  
I know he’ll help me on my feet once again  
Can’t no soul in this whole world but Satan understand the state that I’m in

_But I went down to the fires of insufferable sin_  
Lord I tried but the devil wouldn’t let me come in  
Unholy trust has been broken  
He don’t know on which side I stand  
There ain’t no room among the damned for such a broken and a penitent man.” 

Hell… it might even be sort of good

They start to clap, just a few at first, and then more.

He let’s his eyes open, snatching instantly to Cas’. Cas is beaming, watching him with this insane smile on his face, like he isn’t letting him down, like he’s actually doing it. And jesus christ… he is.

He’s here. On stage. Playing with him. With them. It’s not a dream. It’s not some fantasy he’s going to snap out of embarrassed for even thinking it. He’s standing, under lights, with the sound of a crowd cheering in his ears, the feel of a guitar under his hands, and Cas’ smile everywhere else.

The song hits the beat. Dean shuts his eyes and belts it as hard as he can.

_“And then my good woman rises from her sickness in bed_  
Puts her hands on my thighs and plants a kiss on my head  
Says if the water won’t have ya, if the devil’s too blind  
I know that truly you were meant to be mine  
And then she takes me by the hand and shows me how to leave my worries behind” 

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. He lets it all flow, pushing out of him hard and delicious and perfect. He follows Cas’ rhythm, letting his hands move confidently, his voice carry strong and constant, waiting for Gabe and holding for the pause and then wrapping it all together again.

_“I went down to the river of insufferable sins_  
Lord I tried but the water wouldn’t let me come in  
Too many lives have been broken  
There’s too much blood on my hands  
Only one soul in this whole world would have me just the goddamned way that I am.” 

One cord. Two. And… done.

He can’t help gasping as he opens his eyes. The crowd is clapping. Cheering. Screaming. For him. 

He did it.

He fucking did it.

He laughs, short and shocked, staring out in front of him at the dancing lights and the clapping hands, all lit up in the golden evening light of the park that catches against the leaves and the spread of the pond.

A hand hits his shoulder. Dean turns and then it’s just Cas smiling at him. It’s not ecstatic. It’s not shocked. It’s not even overjoyed. It’s just constant, and proud, and simple. Like he knew this is what would happen. Like he never doubted him. Like he never could. And suddenly, Dean’s kissing him.

He’s not exactly sure how it happened, but all he knows now is he has a hand around the back of his neck and his fingers are tightening in dark hair as Cas’ stills in shock for maybe half a second before he’s kissing him back so hard Dean can’t breathe.

His lips open, full and warm. There’s an arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him close, and a hand in his hair and Dean can’t focus, he can’t even kiss him properly because he’s smiling too damn hard. But that’s alright, because Cas’ is smiling too, and then they’re laughing, heads leant against each other’s, breath tangling together, while Gabriel’s swearing behind them and the crowd is cheering like crazy in front.

“Do we have to finish the show?” Cas asks, voice close and just for him.

Dean’s wondering if you can actually break something from being too happy. “Damn right we do.”

The show sweeps by, all pulsing cheers and endless sound. He’s not even sure his feet touch the ground. And if someone was going to ask him he wouldn’t be able to tell them anything more detailed than “it was awesome.” Because it was. Just, awesome.

He’s convinced he’s _never_ going to let this end by the time he finishes the first encore. He’s fully ready to do a second, when he feels Cas’ hand slide along his wrist and catches the look in his eye.

And, well, everything’s got the end sometime, right?

They get through one more song before Cas is practically shoving him off stage as the crowd screams behind them.

Somewhere through the haze Dean thinks he should maybe be starting to clean up, or at least waiting for Gabriel to say ‘good show’ or whatever the hell your supposed to say after something like this. He should _definitely_ be checking on Sam and making sure he hasn’t been shanked with a broken whiskey bottle. But Cas has his fingers knitted around his and hasn’t stopped walking since they left the stage. 

He’s dragging him out the back, across the short strip of the park, and over towards the parking lot. Dean should say something, do something, but his body doesn’t seem to be capable of much besides grinning like an idiot and looking around at just how _fucking_ amazing looking the world is and wondering why the hell he hasn’t noticed it before. Which is pretty engaging, until Cas suddenly stops, and turns, grabbing Dean’s hips and spinning him until his back hits something which he’s only just realizing is the Impala.

Cas slides closer, easing his hands around Dean’s waist, drifting down to the line of his hips. “Hey.”

Dean manages to swallow. “Hey Cas.”

Cas hums, pressing his body closer. “Happy?”

“Unbelievably.” Dean smiles. “I’m starting to think my face might actually break.”

“It better not,” Cas smiles, fingers hooking under his belt and bringing their hips together. “I like it.”

He turns his hips just a bit and Dean’s voice suddenly catches in his throat as he feels the tight line of his cock against his leg and he can’t help sliding a hand behind him, catching his ass and pulling him closer.

Cas’ breathe hitches and, before Dean gets a chance to even start to deal with how his ass feels as completely perfect under his hand as he thought it would, Cas is kissing him again. 

Dean can’t help being shocked at the force of it, the focus, it’s like there’s nothing else in the world except kissing him, except letting his lips slip open, catching around his, letting his tongue ease forward, pushing against Dean’s in a way that has him swallowing a groan and falling back heavily against the car for support while Cas pushes closer.

Cas’ hands are on the roof now, keeping Dean right between them while he inches his hips forward against Dean’s and scoots his feet until he’s standing right between Dean’s legs. Dean can’t even start to think about everything he wants to touch, everything he wants to feel, and his brain just sort of blanks, leaving him just tracing Cas’ back, holding his sides and keeping him close while his tongue urges against his in a way that’s starting to leave him breathless and flushed.

Cas’ teeth trace ever so lightly against his lip and suddenly Dean’s groaning, hands slipping down to catch Cas’ ass again and tug him tight and close. Then there’s nothing between the heat of their cocks but a few layers of jean and some annoying belts and that’s way too much of a problem.

“Inside-“ Cas mutters against him. 

Dean’s nodding with a swallow, turning to fumble the keys out of his pocket and try to get them into the lock, which would be easier if Cas’ hands weren’t still slipping around his waist, if his cock wasn’t pressed against his ass, and his lost breathes weren’t clambering at his ear.

The keys slip against the lock. “Fuck-“ Dean tries again, and this time they catch. He’s twisting them harder then he ever has in his life, pulling the door open as fast as he can and then they’re falling, tumbling right into the length of the front seat.

Dean hits the leather stomach first and rolls as Cas slides _way_ too damn easily up into his lap and slams the door behind them. 

Instantly, he’s kissing him again, grinding their hips together with unconstrained lust now that they’re alone. And, well, alone is probably a pretty generous term for a parked car in a dark lot in the middle of city, and Dean should probably care way more about that than about getting his hands deep on Cas’ hair and tugging him until he can run his tongue up the side of his neck.

Cas let’s out a little startled moan, hips stuttering in their pace, and god, Dean’s got to hear that noise again. His teeth drag down the line of muscle and around his jaw, catching his lip between his teeth lightly before sliding his tongue into the heat of his mouth, and Cas groans against him like he’s fucking dying.

“God, Dean,” He breathes, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Dean can’t help laughing. “What for the past three hours?”

Cas hums, running his nose along the underside of his jaw. “More like the past three years.”

And shit, Dean’s chest should not be getting tight and lost at that the way it is.

“That first day,” Cas breathes, hips catching against his hard, “When you where standing there, and it was really you, finally you. I had to try so fucking hard not to just drag you inside that bus and do _this_ until we couldn’t move anymore.”

Dean really has to try and get some of his breath back because _jesus-_

“God, why the hell didn’t you?” He groans as Cas’ teeth find that spot under his ear and he let’s his hands find his ass again, feeling his pace against his groin, tight and desperate.

Cas chuckles into his hair. “I didn’t want to assume.”

Dean can’t help laughing. “Are you kidding? I’ve been so fucking in love with you for years, Cas.”

Cas goes still.

It takes half a moment for him to realize just what the fuck just came out of his mouth. 

His stomach goes cold and terrified in half a second. Cas is suddenly staring at him with wide shocked eyes and he isn’t moving anymore and Dean opens his mouth to try and save himself-

Cas kisses him. 

It’s soft and slow and so full of care that something goes warm behind Dean’s chest that should not hurt as much as it does. And then Cas is laughing lightly and shaking his head at himself.

Dean stares, still breathless, “What?”

“Oh, just,” Cas sighs, “I can’t believe you got to say it first.”

For a moment, Dean can’t do anything but look at him. Just look. His hair is shoved in the stupidest directions, his mouth still half caught on a smile, his eyes blown out and soft and locked on his.

Dean shifts, cupping Cas' face in his hand and carefully runs a thumb over his lower lip. Cas’ mouth droops against it, letting his lips part and Dean can’t help drifting his thumb in just enough to trace the line of his teeth, feel the warmth against his skin.

And then, with no warning, Cas closes his mouth around him, tight and wet and warm and the heat floods back through Dean’s stomach, whiting out everything else.

He snaps a hand to Cas’ chest, pushes him back so he’s sitting. Cas’ eyes go wide and confused for a moment and then Dean’s palm lands firm against the hot line of his cock inside his jeans and they flutter in shock as he gasps.

Dean pushes, rolling the ball of his hand against him and stroking up and down. Cas’ catches a curse in his throat, swallowing it down thickly, urging his hips back and forth messy and thoughtless.

And god, he looks so fucking perfect it hurts all the way down. Dean’s other hand is moving, snatching at his belt and tugging it open faster than he thought he could.

He holds onto Cas’ hips firmly, stopping him from moving, thumbs open the buttons. He thrusts his hand inside, easing and pressing until he has his cock out of it’s constrains and tight in his hand.

Cas’ eyes flutter open and he glances down, cheeks flushed, jeans sliding lower on his hips, his cock tight in Dean’s fist and glistening on the end. Dean starts to pump his hand.

“Fuck-“ Cas groans, head falling back helplessly as he catches his lip in his teeth and Dean’s skin feels so tight and so hot he thinks it might actually catch on fire.

He scoots himself a bit, so his back’s against the door and he can actually get a good grip. He snaps his wrist down.

The sounds Cas’ makes busts straight through Elle McPherson’s early years, and Sarah Conner pumping that shotgun to top of the list of the hottest damn things he’s ever seen.

Cas’ voice is going nuts, little whimpering sounds slipping out and lost words and his hips seem to have a mind completely of their own.

He focuses, tries to pull himself together and reaches out for Dean’s belt but Dean just tightens his grip and Cas hisses against a moan.

“Dean- I’m—“ He tries.

But Dean’s hushing him. “It’s alright. God, just, I need to see this alright?”

And Cas swallows, nodding instantly like he completely gets that and he stops trying to hold back. His hips roll with the feeling of it, and _fuck_ he looks so damn good, shirt ridden up, that line of dark hair leading down to the folds of his loose hanging jeans and Dean’s own hand pumping down the blushing length of him, while red patterns dance up his neck and his lips hang open and worn from kissing.

Dean pushes his thumb smartly under the head of his cock and suddenly Cas’ eyes fly open as a breath catches on his tongue and that’s it.

Dean snaps his wrist, pumping his hand fast and relentless and Cas is gasping out some half formed warning that looses itself as his face contorts and his body goes rigid and his climax spills messy and hot against Dean’s hand and t-shirt and jeans.

Dean drags him through it, firm and constant, eyes locked on his face and silently begging his brain to memorize ever single instant.

Cas hisses out a final shudder before his body finally relaxes.

He slumps back, letting his weight catch against Dean’s bent knees, sighing deep and satisfied. Dean can’t help staring at Cas, drained, still half hard, that contented flush fast on his cheeks.

Without realizing it his own hand is drifting down, tugging at his belt and thumbing open his jeans as his knuckles trace over his own erection with a small groan.

Cas’ eyes open, shifting. He sees him, fly open, hands hurrying to relieve some of painful pressure building inside of him and suddenly Cas’ is moving, fast but liquid with relaxation and lust.

His hands lock on Dean’s hips and scoot him back half a foot so Dean’s back is against the door and his head is against the window and Cas has enough room to slip between his legs and nuzzle against the length of him.

Dean lets out a soft moan, hand slipping down and sliding through Cas’ mussed hair.

Cas’ hands tighten on his hips, thumbs sliding over the bones there and holding him tight. He nudges his cock free easily enough and opens his mouth with soft, quick kisses along the length in a way that has Dean whimpering and knocking his head back against the window with a dull thunk.

Cas shifts lazily, inching until one of Dean’s legs is over his shoulder and the other is draped down into the driver’s side seat well.

Cas’ tongue joins in, running easy, warm, and soft up the length of him, tonguing away the pre-cum on the tip, humming against the taste of it and Dean’s gritting his teeth, knitting his hand tighter than he should be in Cas’ hair, unable to stop the way his hips and urging forward attempting to slip in and fuck into the heat of his mouth.

Cas kisses again at the tip, then laps at it, and let’s the weight of Dean push his mouth open as he ducks his head down until he’s wrapped around him, all tight lips and warm skin and Dean can’t help groaning deep and hard against the feeling.

Cas continues, slow and heavy, tracing his tongue along the underside, pull after pull. Dean swallows, tries to hold on, tries to ride out this feeling, the sight of him like this, spread out between his legs with the Impala’s leather seats under them for as long as fucking possible.

Cas’ tongue flicks suddenly on the underside of his head and Dean lots out a short surprised sound that’s _way_ too high-pitched to be anywhere near comfortable with. But that sound seems to do something to Cas because he’s humming against him and increasing the pace, letting Dean’s cock slide messy and quick and tight through his lips, pushing against the back of his throat as he swallows against him and _fuck_ — it’s too much.

Dean let’s out a stutter, hand tightening in Cas’ hair. “Cas--“

Cas huffs around him, eyes darting up to his quickly and then he’s shifting. He tightens his lips and pushes down, and at the same time drags a knuckle against the tight space between Dean’s legs.

Dean gasps, eyes going wide with shock, instantly feeling his cock pulse hard in Cas’ mouth and he’s spilling hot against his tongue in steady pulses as he clenches forward on the feeling. Cas drags him out mercilessly, not letting up, not loosing even for a second.

Dean feels him swallow and then he’s collapsing back with a heavy sigh, not giving a single fuck how much the window hurts when it collides with the back of his skull.

Somewhere far off in an impossible place he knows his hand is still in Cas’ hair, that Cas is tucking him neatly back into place and frowning at the mess he left on his shirt before sighing, shifting and snuggling up into the weight of his chest.

He feels Cas let out a deep breath against his neck, where his face is tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Dean knits a hand around his waist and holds on as tightly as he can.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

Cas sighs. “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure, this is when I wake up.” Dean says.

Cas laughs. “Is that right?”

Dean swallows. “It has to be.”

Cas opens his eyes, turning them up to his face with that same smile. “Then I’ll follow you.”

Dean can’t help smiling. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

 

“Sam? Sam?”

Sam squints. It’s warm, but somehow not as warm as it should be. He keeps his eyes shut. It will be easy enough to slip back to sleep again.

There’s a hand pushing his hair out of his face. “Sam?”

He knows the voice. He won’t open his eyes. 

He catches the hand pushing his hair aside and knits his fingers around it with a small sound.

Someone’s laughing at him. He probably shouldn’t be smiling about that.

“You should wake up. It’s almost noon,” Luke says gently.

Sam groans, letting his eyes peer open.

And god, he’s right. It’s bright all around them, yellow and brilliant and most definitely later than it should be.

“Shit,” Sam swears, sitting up on his elbows and blinking.

Luke’s smiling. He’s holding two cups of coffee. He’s still got the bandaid on his forehead, but other than that he looks pretty much completely normal.

Sam blinks. “How are you… alive?”

Luke pushes the warm cup into his hands and sips his own. “I don’t get hungover.”

Sam stares. “Wow… you really are an asshole.”

Luke shrugs.

Sam sighs, sitting up properly and taking a sip of coffee. It’s fucking perfect.

“You made me coffee?” Sam asks.

“You gave me a bandaid,” Luke says. 

Sam squints, looking up at the windows again. The sun’s pouring through, no shades or curtains, and at the angles he’s at he can just see the sky, blue and clear overhead. There’s a few leaves off to one side and for a second he forgets they’re in the city at all.

He blinks, trying to push the sleep out of his brain and remember things properly. He feels like there’s definitely something he should be doing right now. Oh. Right.

“I’m sorry,” He says, turning back to him. “I was an asshole, have been, an asshole. It wasn’t… I’m sorry.”

Luke’s smiling with the edges of his mouth. His hair’s still messy from sleep but he’s managed to get dressed apparently. “You were jealous.”

Sam frowns into his coffee. “You were all naked and grabby.” 

“I’m also really, very gay.” Luke raises an eyebrow. “Or was that not obvious?”

“Yeah, well, I was really, very straight.” Sam says, returning the look.

Luke sighs, leaning back against the wall where he’s sitting on the bed and shrugs, which is enough of an acknowledgment.

“Have you seen Gabriel?” Sam asks after a minute and a few more sips.

“Mm,” Luke nods into his coffee. “He’s fine. We’re fine.”

Sam suddenly blinks, trying to pull memories back into their proper place again. “Did he… did he do that on purpose?”

“What? Inspire your drunken ass to kiss him and know I would see so I would fly off the handle and become a pathetic pile of useless and you’d have to deal with things properly? I don’t know, doesn’t seem all that likely, does it?”

“He did, didn’t he?”

“Oh most certainly.”

Sam can’t help sitting up straighter, almost spilling his coffee over everything and barely managing to keep a handle on it. “How?! I mean seriously… _I_ kissed him!”

“Did he do that thing where he lets his bangs fall in his face and pretends that it’s accidentally and then smiles like every things fine and uses that soft voice so you end up sitting a little closer than usual?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” 

Luke shifts his foot under the blankets, Sam feels them move around his leg, slipping the warm parts away for cool parts yet unexplored, but Luke’s foot doesn’t get close enough to slide under Sam’s leg for warmth, just contented with the blankets for cover. 

Luke takes another sip. “Apparently the show was interesting.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. Suddenly, he can’t believe he’d forgotten until now. “Dean did alright?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Luke muses. “If tongue fucking my brother in front of six hundred people counts as alright.”

Sam chokes on his coffee.

Luke’s grinning into his own as Sam tries to clean himself back up, swearing at the stain on his t-shirt and silently thanking god he didn’t manage to get any on Luke’s sheets which probably cost as much as his car.

“I guess he’s probably going to be sticking around then, huh?” Sam says, pulling himself together finally.

Luke nods quietly. He runs his thumb along the edge of his mug, staring down into the dark liquid as the steam circles around the air under his lips.

“What about you?”

Sam looks up. “What?”

Luke’s eyes remain fixed on the coffee. “Are you sticking around?”

Sam swallows. “Until the summer’s over.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going home.” Sam says.

Luke doesn’t look up. He stays where he is, watching his hands where they trace the edge of the mug.

“I’m going to go get my car, drive back, and recover my apartment." Sam leans back, taking a sip of coffee. “And then, as soon as I’ve put my bag down and make sure I haven’t been robbed, I’m going to call you.”

Luke looks up, pale eyes widening.

“I’ll let you know I got back alright,” Sam continues, “And I’ll ask how Cas is, and if he and Dean are still acting like a romantic comedy. I’ll ask about Gabriel and if he’s done anything remarkably insane. And you can tell me about the shows and the interviews and we can argue about whatever you want. And then I’ll ask when your stupid rockstar life will let up enough for you to come and stay like a proper boyfriend.”

Luke’s staring. Sam half suspects he isn’t totally aware of the smile that’s creeping onto his face.

“Is that right?” He asks.

“Pretty much,” Sam shrugs. “That is if you can forgive me for kind of acting like a complete dick.”

Luke’s smile is definitely preparing to conquer his entire face. “Pretty much.”

Sam smiles. It’s easier than it has been somehow. He takes another deep sip of coffee and sets the mug down on the table next to the bed, giving a good hard stretch.

He watches through squinted eyes as Luke takes in the full length of his stretched torso before he collapses back in on himself, stretching forward and taking Luke’s cup out of his hands. Luke’s fingers loosen to let him and Sam sets it down gently next to his own, before turning back.

He reaches out, sliding his hand behind his neck and pulls him forward.

“Even so,” He smiles. “I think I owe you some pretty good apology sex.”

Luke laughs. “How sorry are you?”

Sam grins. “Very.” He gives him a sharp tug and leans back, leaving Luke suspended over him, supported on his elbows while Sam sinks into the bed and slides a hand into his hair.

He kisses him, lips closed, soft, and moves to open them. Luke makes a small sound, pulling back, sitting up suddenly on his lap.

“Hold on.” Luke says.

Sam let’s out a disappointed noise. “What is it?”

Luke’s eyeing him like he’s trying to reshuffle the categories in his brain. “I don’t… want to.”

Sam’s eyes widen. He sits up on his elbows. “What?”

“I don’t want to.” Luke says, a fresh clarity filling his face.

Sam furrows his brow. “Then… what do you want to do?”

Luke purses his lips and looks around, decisions apparently falling into place. “ I want to take a shower. Alone. Get dressed. Maybe go for a walk. Together. I want to take you to dinner. And then I want to take you home.” 

Sam can’t help smiling. “…Really? You’d rather do that? In that order?”

Luke leans forward, pushes his hair out of his face and kisses his cheek once. “I’d rather do that.”

Sam collapses backwards. “Fine, date day it is.”

Luke grins, eyeing his crotch accusingly. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Fuck off.” Sam laughs, rolling his hips and shoving him away. “Take your fucking shower already.”

Luke gives him one more smile and then turns, picking some relatively clean clothes off the floor, grabbing a towel and heading into the bathroom.

Sam sighs heavily and rolls over where the blankets are still cold, shutting his eyes and trying to think of something else as he hears the shower turn on next-door and something that sounds a lot like a belt hitting the floor as Luke kicks off his pants.

But no. Sam shuts hit eyes. He’s not listening. He’s not thinking about it. Because Luke’s right. He’d rather do that.

It’s been everything besides that up until now, and now, it’s almost shocking just how easy it’s been for it to change into something else. He’s really starting to suspect it always was something else, hiding just under the surface, and he raged against it and hated it and was sick over it all because he’d always known it was waiting and for some reason didn’t want it to be. Why? Because it changed things? Because it was uncertainty, and that’s exactly what he’s tried so hard to avoid since he made it out of the back of that Impala and started making his own life choices? Yeah, that’s more than likely.

And now it was here. It felt good and safe and like something he could actually grab hold of. It wasn’t some loss of control. The last thing he felt was frustration or confusion or anger. Well… maybe a bit frustration. 

But that doesn’t matter. It will pass. It’s just morning. He’ll get over this little spurt of morning induced sexual frustration, and they’ll go out. They’ll argue about stupid things, make fun of the other, and realize for the first time exactly what all that means, and then come back here and collapse into this bed, all skin and short breaths and—

Luke starts singing.

Sam opens his eyes.

It’s not like he sings on stage, all raw power and force, it’s gentle, casual, like anyone else singing in the shower really. It’s fine. It’s average. And it absolutely should not be going directly to Sam’s cock in way that’s making him shut his eyes tight again and feel way to tempted to just slip his hand down under his boxers and take care of it.

That’s what he should do. Because Luke’s right. It’s only been sex up until now, and that shouldn’t be all there is. He doesn’t want it to be all there is.

Luke’s voice lowers, rolling over the chorus, and suddenly Sam’s flicking off the blankets and swinging his legs out of bed.

He’s across the room just as fast, taking a quick moment to glance around the bus and see if anyone else is around before locking his hand around the handle and pushing it open gently.

The door swings in, steam flooding in around his face as he steps inside and clicks it shut behind him. 

Luke’s clothes are scattered on the floor, including those stupid pink boxer-briefs Sam’d almost forgotten he owned. The new clothes are sitting on top of the toilet next to the shower under the towel, ready and waiting.

Sam stays where he is for a moment, listening to Luke’s voice fill the space, breathing in the steaming air all around.

He lasts about thirty seconds before he’s silently slipping his t-shirt over his head and stepping out of his boxers, moving across the floor. He gets a hand around the shower curtain and pulls it to one side.

Luke’s voice falters in shock and he turns to stare at him, eyes wide and surprised, at least for half a second, before they drift all the way down.

Luke frowns, stare going dark. “Cheater.”

Sam snatches him around the back of the neck, pulling him close and opening his mouth on his.

His lips are wet and warm from the shower and he tastes the water mingling around with everything else. Luke’s gets a hand around his arm, pulling him under the heat of the water to join him.

The heat of it slips over Sam all at once as he presses him against the wall, opening his mouth with his, running his tongue along his lip, loving how the water changes how his stubble feels and how everything slips and slides in a whole new way. Luke catches a hand around his ass and tugs him close and Sam can’t help gasping as their bodies crash together.

It’s strange and new and shocking but _jesus_ his cock feels so much better like this, naked and wet and warm, clumsily jammed against his. And yeah, it totally helps that the rest of him is there, firm and soft in all the right places, warm and slick from the shower as his mouth opens under his and his tongue slides into his mouth far too easily.

Sam can feel his hair sticking to his face under the pressure of the water, feel the warmth of it all sinking in over his back and drifting lazily down into his limbs. Luke’s hands slip easily up his back, one catching his hair and tugging it back. Sam gasps, but only for a second before it turns into a groan as Luke catches the line of his neck in his teeth and toys at it, lapping up the warm strands of water, nipping at the skin, leaving a stinging trail of marks all the way down.

He feels Luke’s cock give a pulse against the line of his leg and Sam’s suddenly moving, snatching Luke’s waist, pushing him against the wall and dropping down to his knees before he can even start to think about what the hell he’s about to do.

Luke lets out a little huff of surprise as his back hits the wall and then Sam’s opening his mouth and dragging his tongue up the length of him. He groans hard, slipping helplessly a few inches down the wall.

It’s as alien as he expected it would be. It probably helps that there’s water dripping down all around him and it’s the easiest thing to do is just run his tongue around gathering it up. He gets to the head and laps, a short taste of bitter catching him by surprise, since he kinda expected that to be saltier, but it hardly matters. He catches his hands hard around Luke's hips, pushes him back and slowly slides his lips around his cock and all the way down.

It’s harder than he expected, cumbersome and awkward with a few too many things to try and keep organized, teeth and tongue and lips and pressure, and he’s totally sure he’s fucking it up in ten different ways but Luke’s hand goes tight in his hair and he’s shuddering under Sam’s hand so Sam keeps going. 

He pulls back and drives forward again, trying to push deep and solid, but he feels his throat catch against it, his gag reflex protesting hard and bringing unexpected dampness to the corner of his eyes so he eases back, dragging his tongue on the way, and Luke hums above him.

Luke’s hand slips down, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s and guiding them gently to the base of his cock and Sam takes the hint, closing his hand around the bottom of his erection and moving it in time with his mouth.

It’s getting easier, like a rhythm, cheeks hollowing and lips tightening, tongue sliding and circling and Luke lets out a sharp noise suddenly and grabs his hair firmly, holding him still.

Sam pulls back with a soft sound, blinking up into the falling water to see him. “What?”

Luke laughs, groaning a little as Sam keeps the pace up with his hand still tight around him. “I just- if you keep that up—“

Sam grins, twisting his wrist slightly and loving the broken sound that drags out of him. “Isn’t that the point?”

Luke swallows hard, shaking his head. “Not like that - I don’t—“

Sam grins at the mess he’s made of him, ducking his head down and teasing the tip of his tongue over his slit and Luke gasps, reaching down with sudden strength and tugging Sam up to his feet again.

He looks him dead in the eyes, pale blue just a thin line of ice around his pupils. “I want you to fuck me. I want to come like that.”

And now Sam’s the one who’s gone a little breathless. “I uh- I don’t know, I haven’t—“

“Do you want to?” Luke asks, hands tight where they’re pressed against his face.

Sam feels his cock pulse against his thigh, watches the water slip down Luke’s neck and chest, lips red and worn and parted with caught tight breathes. 

“Yeah.” Sam breathes. “Please.”

Luke’s eyes slant, filling with purpose and hunger. He’s locks a hand around Sam’s arm, pushing him back. “Counter.”

Sam nods, shoving the curtain aside and stumbling out of the shower with a small slip, and onto the mess of Luke’s clothes. Luke’s after him instantly, moving everything from the counter corner with a shove. He turns, snatching Sam’s jaw in his hand and pulling him close until he’s kissing him again, deep and hard and slick.

Sam’s trying not to gasp, catching his hand under Luke’s hips and hefting him, sliding him back on the counter and ducking to trace the line of his shoulder in his teeth, run his tongue up the side of his neck, catching the water that’s already going cold there.

Luke groans, legs catching behind Sam’s and shoving their hips together. Sam can’t help letting out a huff of surprise and swallowing a whine as their cocks knock together again. Luke’s hand slides down between them, locking them both in his hand and pumping down hard.

“Fuck—!” Sam can’t keep the moan back, feeling it pull out his chest in one short tug. 

He leans back enough to see, watching Luke’s fist drag up and down as his head falls back against the glass of the mirror with some words slipping out of him that are more air than anything else.

And then Luke’s other hand is scrambling for something, finally closing around a thing of moisturizer, or lotion, or something along those lines and fumbling to squeeze some into his hand. 

His hand slips, knocking the thing over, “Shit-“ He swears taking his hand off of their cocks to grab it properly and leaving Sam panting, trying to making his mind work right for at least two seconds.

“I haven’t- I don’t know how to,” Sam manages, watching as Luke quickly pumps a few times, gathering the white stuff in his hand.

“Fine-“ Luke huffs, “It’s fine. I’ll help—“ And then he’s got two slick hands, one wrapping around Sam’s cock and the other slipping between his legs.

Sam’s eyes flutter hard against the feeling of it, tight and so slick, watching wide-eyed as Luke’s hand circles him, firm and constant, coating him down. And then he looks down and barely manages to swallow a groan.

Luke’s slipped two fingers inside himself, moving in tight circles and huffing out breathes as his chest goes red and the color starts to slip up his neck, filling his cheeks.

“Jesus-“ Sam breathes, and Luke’s lips spread into a smile. His hands shift, hips tilting up and one hand guiding Sam down and running the edge of his cock along the slick of his hole while his other hand grips his hips tight and Sam can’t help letting out a little whine.

Luke opens his eyes, locks them right on Sam’s and swallows. “Alright?”

Sam stares down at the sight below him and shakily nods. Luke’s hand tightens on his hip and shoves him forward, breaching him just half and inch. A short hard sound escapes Sam and he can’t help snapping his hands to Luke’s hips and pulling himself the rest of the way.

The breath punches out of his lungs, hard and wild and he’s wide eyed, shocked against the feeling. His stomach going hard and alight inside him against the feeling of that slick _perfect_ heat, that’s both familiar and totally new. He just can’t help gripping tighter, pulling closer until he’s deeper inside than he’s ever been in anything and it’s only then he catches Luke’s face.

Luke’s eyes are shut, tight, he’s breathing hard through his nose, hands locked around Sam’s hips, entire body tense.

“Shit-“ Sam suddenly swears, all breath, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ He moves to pull back and Luke’s hands tighten so hard on his hips to stop him that he can’t help wincing.

“Don’t-“ Luke warns, eyes slipping open, blazing against his. “Just… wait—“

Sam swallows, doing as he’s told, focusing instead on trying his best not to think about the way the muscles around him are tightening and loosening because if he lets that flood his mind he might just come right then and there—

Luke sighs, leaning back, shoulders relaxing just a bit and he inches his hips back half an inch and then forward again as he gives a little huff and nod.

Sam feels his hands shaking as he drags out as far as he dares and can’t help letting out a faltering cry when he snaps back in.

“Fuck-“ stumbles out of Luke’s lips, and again when Sam can’t help thrusting right back exactly the same way. 

His hands are stumbling, slipping on the wet of their bodies and the counter, and he finally gets them around the bones of Luke’s hips, sliding him back and forth, his ass slipping easily over the soaked counter, and _god_ it’s good. He’d never known, he’d never even come close to knowing, imagining that it could be so—

He tilts his hips up a bit on a staggering thrust and suddenly Luke’s eyes snap open, a rushed gasp falling out his lips.

Sam’s eyes go wide, hips pulling out and snapping up right in the same place.

“Fuck-“ Luke gasps, “Jesus, like that, exactly like that—“

And suddenly Sam’s desperate to do it right, to make this feel as good as he possibly can, to make him come so hard he forgets how to breath. His trembling hands find new purchase, hips jacking up the speed, trying his best to focus on getting just where he needs to go.

Luke’s groan busts out of him, shattering to pieces as Sam’s pace gets away from him. It’s all too much: the slick slide of their bodies, the heat, the pressure--

“Sam—“ Luke tries. Shot. Wrecked. Pace gone messy and helpless. And suddenly Sam needs to see this, needs to know it’s his. 

His hand snatches out, grabbing the back of Luke’s neck and lifting his head, grip tightening in his hair.

“Look-“ Sam commands and Luke’s eyes rush open, blue and brilliant and locked on Sam’s face, which he knows must be flushed and ruined, his hair wet and fallen into his face, his lips hanging and desperate. Sam’s hand stumbles, and then catches, wrapping around Luke’s cock all at once and tugging down brutal and swift.

Luke’s voice shatters and suddenly he’s coming, body tightening hard and fast, quick pumps of heat spilling out between them, and Sam can’t hold out any longer, not against the pressure snapping down around him.

His pace stutters, a half sob dragging out of his chest and he blinks hard, feeling the orgasm tug out of him in tight pulls, filling the space surrounding him hot and wet and, _fuck—_

His hips catch, their pace slowing in small desperate little jolts until finally they still.

He collapses head falling down into the curve of Luke’s shoulder as they slip back a few inches on the counter. He hears the dull sound of Luke’s head knock against the mirror, feels Luke’s chest heaving, trying to remember how to slow under him, and bit by bit it does. He can feel the stick of cum between them, the noise of the shower mingling with their steadily slowing breaths. Luke’s hand slips up the side of his neck, lifting his head, kissing him once and then gently, easing him back upright.

Sam hisses, pulling free with a small gasp as Luke let’s out a messy groan.

With a soft sound of discontent Luke pushes himself upright, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist and holding him close. “Alright?”

Sam laughs, the sound coming out louder than he meant. He ducks down and kisses him. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Do I still have to get you dinner?” Luke asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sam grins. “Definitely.”

 

It’s one of those cold days where the wind cuts directly through you and there’s absolutely no good reason to be outside whatsoever. The sky is a pale undulating grey, shifting and brewing against the force of the winds that rip around the street outside, knocking any remaining dry leaves off the trees, banging street signs back and forth, tugging at Sam’s coat as he hunches his shoulders up against it and hurries down the street towards his apartment. 

The case files he’s got under one arm are really starting to get hard to manage, and he really should get a briefcase, but he’s too bitter about the amount of paper everyone in his firm regularly wastes to give in just yet. He keeps his laptop bag firm in his other hand and tries to ignore the way the wind keeps shoving in hair in front of his face.

It really is cold, but at least the icy, barely there drizzle of rain stopped for now. That’s not to say it wouldn’t be back, but if it was, it wasn’t his problem. He was going home, to sink into the couch, put on some tea, and take in all the joys a warm laptop on your thighs can bring.

He puts his bag down to fumble his keys out of his coat pocket, watching as his tie dances around in the wind against his chest. The keys turn and he tugs the building’s door open against the wind, shoving himself inside and sealing it out behind. 

He huffs out the cold as he hurries up two flights of stairs and leans against his apartment door for a moment, securing the papers under his arm before unlocking that door as well and pushing inside with a sigh of relief. 

Which turns very quickly into a yelp of surprise as something waiting behind the door grabs his wrist and turns him hard.

Sam hardly has time to react with the proper amount of panic before there’s lips on his, and they’re so _warm_ after outside and so familiar and eager that he swallows a protest and lets him kiss him. He drops his bag down to the floor and slides a hand up the side of his jaw, into his hair, tilting his head and deepening it, winning a small sound from his assailant. 

He pulls him back, flushed and laughing. “I never should have given you a key.”

“You’re cold.” Luke frowns at his red cheeks. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s cold,” Sam smiles sarcastically, turning away and putting the papers down on the end table so he can shrug off his coat. “Not much I can do about that.”

“You could try,” Luke pouts, shifting past him with socks on the wooden floors and making his way into the kitchen where Sam can hear something sliding on the stove.

“Did you make tea?”

“Mmm, aren’t I perfect?” Luke hums as Sam hears two mugs clink down onto the counter.

“Oh yeah, exactly the adjective I’d use.” Sam rolls his eyes, kicking off his shoes and sliding into the kitchen after him.

He slides his hands around his waist as Luke pours the steaming water into the mugs, laying his face into the curve of his neck. “Thank you.”

“Hey!” Luke flinches away, “Cold!”

Sam grins and digs the cold tip of his nose deeper. Luke gives him a firm shove. “Fuck off.”

Sam laughs, stepping back and picking his tea up off the counter. Luke does the same, sliding easily up onto the breakfast bar, dangling his feet down under him.

“So,” Sam starts, breathing down on his tea to cool off the first sip. “Did people see you come in?”

Luke sighs, “No, Sam, no one saw me. But you’re going to have to get over that. We have to leave sometime you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “I just need to get used to it, I guess. Bobby gave me shit for weeks about that snap-shot in People last month.”

Luke grins. “What? ‘Who’s Luke’s Tall Dark and Handsome?’ With that cute picture of you jamming your tongue down my throat in the park? I thought that was nice.”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs, “I’m never living that down.”

“What was Bobby doing with a People anyways?” Luke asks, taking a sip.

“That’s what I said!” Sam continues, “But he said he was at the dentist, and everyone reads People at the dentist. He said it’s a neutral zone.”

Luke shrugs. “Fair point.”

Sam finally takes a sip and it’s warm all the way down. “So, how’s everybody?”

Luke sighs, reaching out with his feet so they hook around the back of Sam’s legs. He pulls him closer until he’s standing between his knees.

“Gabriel’s the same as always. ‘Cas’ is nervous about starting the album. Dean’s trying to convince him it’s going to be ‘awesome’. And he’s getting used to more stage time, singing a few songs out of the shows which Castiel continues to insist is ‘good for me’, but I don’t—”

“Wait, wait,” Sam can feel a smile start to pull at the corner of his mouth. “…Album?”

“Oh yeah, did I not mention that?” Luke teases, setting down his mug and pulling him closer. “I thought it was time for a new one.”

“What’s that involve?”

“Oh, you know, writing songs, recording sessions, late nights, ‘the creative process’.”

Sam wants to roll his eyes, but it’s a little hard when he smells that good. “Huh, sounds interesting.”

“Mmm, and rather lengthy, we’ll have to find a place to stay while we work.” Luke sighs, “Unfortunate really, we decided to record in the studio on Smith St., and I really know hardly anyone who lives around here, so I don’t know what I’ll do with myself for the next eight months--”

Sam kisses him.

Luke’s legs wrap around him tighter, pulling him close and firm and Sam lets his mouth open against his, tasting tea and the smokey electric taste he always has.

“You’re staying?” Sam asks, smile catching against Luke’s.

“You’re asking?” Luke returns, running his hand around his hips.

“Are you going to leave your shit lying around, and fight me for the remote, and play stupid guitar all day on the couch, and bitch when I get home late from work?”

Luke grins, “Absolutely.”

Sam kisses him, firm and warm. “Then stay.”

Luke hums, and the feeling of his voice echoes through Sam’s chest, pulsing and present and his.

“Alright.”


End file.
